Little Hours

K.K. Adams

Lying heavy in my bed
I hear the murmured
whimper of a son
lauding his hunger
in the darkness
and, opening one eye,
see the hour—3 a.m.

I will arise,
hoisting my heaviness
out of the warmth
of my bed,
to keep this vigil,
to be a comforter,
to invite another in.

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