Sleeping Son

by Justine C. Tajonera

I could hardly
catch my breath
as I left the train,
a father and
his sleeping son
still a burning
image in my mind.

I was mute
for the entire ride
as a young woman
asked the father
with a silver capped tooth
about his ill child.

The boy's legs
were thinner than
branch sticks.
He was well-clothed
but struggling
for breath,
his eyes closed, swollen
and dreaming.

The father clutched
medical receipts
and prescriptions
in one hand,
despondent over how
to care for his
meningitis-stricken
boy.

My heart raced
back home
to the son
I left
sleeping.
I forgot to
kiss his cheek
and feet
before I left.

(Oct. 28, 2009)

Image from smh.com.au