Poem - Electric 3 AM

ELECTRIC 3 A.M.

She has a hundred ways to show me she is ill.
A light cough, a hand to cover her mouth
Which leans with difficulty to greet it.
Then the same fingers press the chest lightly.
You look unwell, I don’t say.
I think you are dying, I don’t add.

Someone wrote of them –
“Our parents are the wall between ourselves and death”.
This seems right, now.
Life’s mathematics.
Is the comfort to beat their average?
And then for me?

She was once a towering problem
Slapping the backs of my legs
(Because I walked into a lamp post)
Rubbing my cheeks with hanky and spit
(I cried)
Tut. Look at You. Come Here.
I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again we had a routine.
She winces and breathes hard
And she doesn’t like to grumble
Yet she bloody does.

When we buried her I dissembled
And dreamed she came to the end of my bed
Hello mum, I managed
Want some tea? How are you?
A blink.
Just the clock
And No one. Me



James A Bullion 23/1/00 revised December 2007