It’s two in the morning, the end of summer.
I greet you now, “How can I make you better?”
Your hand is cold, your face stained with tears,
Your voice trembles, you express your fears.
You tell me about Gina, Cathy, Brenda Lee
There were fifteen of you dressed splendidly.
Mimosas, margaritas; much more than a thimble
Partaken as you danced to the music, so nimble.
You tell me of the gold strap, bejeweled
Holding your shoe to your foot so tanned
As you stepped from the sidewalk.
Now you sob, unable to talk.
I clean blood, a dark red path away.
A sterile blue paper drape, I lay
Across your upper face
Tiny stitches pull your skin into place.
You tell me of your wedding dress
As your future husband caresses
Your hand, “It’s all right
Our future is bright.”
****My attempt at poetry as per Dr. Charles request.