Other than the sheet’s faint
rise and fall,
the room stayed still enough
to frighten them.
Each night they leaned
in, brushed the soft collapse
of his cheeks, grazed
the creases in his bruised palm.
Was this the last time,
they’d see his fingers curl
at 2 a.m.
for his Bluey cup,
his eyes glassy
like the animals
in his bed.
Each morning, they waited
for a shift of his eyelids,
to feel the day return,
the bed still cloaked
in a slender box of moonlight.
