Over my shoulder and barely registering
the rolling news of football updates
and possible giant killing acts
without mercy, I read
your poem and I feel the kick
in the guts, the relentless
cry of foul and the whistle
of finger typed agony
as your blood lays invisible
in my palms.
Let her breathe I urge inwardly,
let her feel this emotion
and all around me is silent,
the publican’s wife sweeps the table clean,
my untouched tea now fast evaporating,
down the sink, I ignore it all.
I feel your pain, let her breathe, let her
breathe I beg, and I see tears
forming in your eyes
to match mine
on the inside.
Ian D. Hall 2017