Not quite yet, it’ll be the 20th. But I woke up at 3:45 this morning, and trying to fall back asleep, I wrote this. I can’t remember the last time I wrote a poem.

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Three Years

I fetch socks from your dresser
My dresser now
Standing where you lay
Surrounded by strangers
Working quickly and professionally
To try to save you.

I’m still here.
After all,
It wasn’t the rug’s fault.
It wasn’t the dresser’s fault.
It wasn’t the bedroom’s fault.

I hope it wasn’t mine.

– E.D. Peterson, 5/9/25