Nesting
The door
to my parents’ bedroom is ajar.
I poke my head
around the door and peek in.
There they are,
not a peep out of them.
Cuddled in Mother’s hospital bed
he cradles her head under his armpit.
Pop grins his head off.
Mother looks like she died and went to heaven.
Not a bad way to go, when you think about it.
“Tuck your head under my wing
and go to sleep,” Mama used to cluck
when I was her baby chick.
Here they are, nestled together,
under each other’s wings.
Nesting, with no eggs to hatch.
