A Thanksgiving Poem

Wonderful Life.

He opened his eyes,
and felt the pain
in his shoulders
and his back
and his knees.
It was wonderful.
He struggled to the edge of the bed,
and draped his legs over the side
as he strained to sit up
waiting for the blood to rush from his head
to his feet.
It was wonderful.
He stood up,
staggered to the bathroom
and looked into the mirror
at the grizzled image
of an old man
with a belly made for Santa Claus
and eyes bloodshot
from lack of sleep.
It was wonderful.
He had a cup of coffee,
kissed his wife hello
spoke his good morning
in a plaintive voice
that belied his tiredness.
It was wonderful.
She held him close
and whispered in his ear
that she loved him
no matter what,
and gave him courage
to meet the day
and the devils
and the devious
and the proud
and the loud
and the awful
and the mean spirited
and the creatures of the night.

It was wonderful.