It is dark, the street lamp shines outside the window.
Does she mind, so she blinds her closed eyes,
is his content he can see her face?
Cotton balls with make-up,
cotton shirts with yellow sweat stains in baskets,
sleepy eyes confuse their rightful places.
As I lie in bed, I wonder what he in China thinks,
or she in Cuba feels.
Was the day beautiful, or does it make the next a dread?
Does regret paint their faces,
drawing funny mustaches as the devil giggles from the bed post?
Do they smile, making him shift uncomfortably in his vocation?
Did they remember what was taught on Sunday,
what their sleepy eyes caught at dusk or dawn,
depending on their preference,
what the Good News proclaimed when they sought it?
They turn, move around, finding the perfect spot on the bed.
As they drift, two things are true,
they are extremely flawed humans,
but two, they are loved.
Even in hell, He is with them.
And so I smile, and sleep.
by Maureen Kingori