In this poem, you keep your Number One alive.
You hold her house keys in your dependable hand,
gather them in your pocket.
You close your eyes, steel yourself, then look up from the floor.
Her eyes find you from the hospital bed, hold your presence
like a shield aimed at her gloom,
at the dark that lingers too long in her quiet.
You pull your daughter’s keys from your pocket,
so she knows her father is there to take her home.