Poem: Sleep Becomes Her

Your face
On the pillow
Whose cover hasn’t
been washed
in a week.
The same pillow
your daddy drools on
Because he sleeps
so sound.
He flips it over
when I notice
the spots.
And I snobbishly
will not sleep
On the pillow.
But you do
Because your face
On the pillow
is all that matters
right now.


One Comment Add yours

  1. marybeth says:


    I love this poem and feel it so much right now. My dishes can touch the ceiling if the reach just a little and my feet sick to my floor. Dog hair is now the cover of my couch and my windows have paint hand-prints on them…that are now smaller than my daughters growing hands…

    sending love and laughs

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