Breakfast at Night, Due to the Light
A poem of the caregiver, late in the night
At 3am sharp, his lamp came alive —
A shuffle, a mutter, a half-hearted drive.
“I might go pee,” he said with a yawn,
Then turned off the lamp like the moment was gone.
But it was not over, and again came the glow —
“Where are my teeth?” in a pondering show.
I fetched them with grace, and he put them in,
Then he laid back down, and asked to be covered again.
But no, not yet. The lamp strikes again!
A third act begins in this caregiving playpen.
I asked him what gives, and he replied, forgot,
So I said, “A sandwich, perhaps? Coffee! It’s hot.”
Chicken salad, potato delight,
Deviled macaroni at first morning light.
He eats like a finicky cat while I look at him close,
And wonder that sleep is what I always miss most.
And I stepped out to get coffee for me —
Sleep deprivation caused that plea.
I returned in a bit to check on the scene,
The sandwich sat quiet, the salads pristine.
“I’m not that hungry,” he said with a sigh,
And I nodded, too tired myself to even ask why.
It’s the ritual, the attempt, the hope and the try,
The flicker of care when the night passes by.
And though sleep escapes me, and silence is rare,
I’d do it again. Because I am always there.
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