James A. Brightman: Poet and Writer

Pitch black save for the moon rippling along a lake, I was inside an empty waiting room with a sore back and wet eyes.

She wanted me to stay the night and watch over her; I could pretend I was an angel if I wasn’t head to toe in navy blue.

Refusing medication, both of us, for our varied reasons that would have her last days imprint in my mind even with this word and the next.