Louis Burke Jenkins (October 28, 1942 – December 21, 2019)
They no longer sleep quite as well as they did
when they were younger. He lies awake
thinking of things that happened years ago, turning uncomfortably from time to time, pulling on the
blankets. She worries about money. First one
and then the other is awake during the night,
in shifts as if keeping watch, though they can’t
see very much in the dark and it’s quiet.
They are sentries at some outpost, an abandoned fort somewhere in the middle of the Great Plains
where only the wind is a regular visitor.
Each stands guard in the wilderness of an imagined
life in which the other sleeps untroubled.