SOME TIMES MY SON.

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.

Sometimes,
my son,
I just want
to be numb;
I want to wake
to bird song
and fresh morning air,
not human voice,
not the distant traffic's hum.

Sometimes,
my son,
I want the numbness
to envelope me,
to swallow me whole,
to keep out
the hurt and pain,
the breaking up
of heart
and ache of head,
pretending
you're not dead.

The numbness,
my son,
how it seems
to put things
in perspective,
allows the past
to dissolve
into a vague series
of images,
hoping to be lost,
forgetting the cost.

Sometimes, Ole,
I want to be numb,
need the feelings to go,
the pain to ease,
the last words
to freeze.

Only the drugged
sleep aids,
my son,
only the dreamless sleep
like sister death,
helps me
for a few hours
to unwind
the inner clock's
wound up spring.

Sometimes,
my son,
the drugs don't work,
the pain remains,
and I don't want the drink
to take hold again
to numb the pain.

Sometimes,
my son,
I just want
a numbness to ease,
the words be
temporally forgotten,
the visions seen,
packed away
for another day,
when I feel stronger,
when the loss of you,
hurts less(if ever),
and the night to day
questions come less
or do so no longer.

Some days,
my son,
I just want
to be numb.