Blessed Be

Blessed be the bed sores
That make them notice
That I exist
And give me those fifteen minutes of humanity.

Blessed be the medication
that falls from my hand
to the cold tiles
Forcing them to touch me.

Blessed be the little children
who actually see me
Even if
they don’t understand. “What’s wrong with her, Mommy?”

Blessed be the well-wishers
who utter empty platitudes
and then leave
But don’t send them back, please.

Blessed be the dirty floors
and the janitor
and laughter
that echoes past the sound of the mop

Blessed be the flowers from who-knows-where
That sit by my table
and fill the room
with sunshine reflecting on tiles.

Blessed be my daughter
and forgive her
and my sons
They mean to come more often, I am sure.

Blessed be.

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Categories: Poetry | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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