We hug good morning, good night.

Cuddle a few times a week 

(the grace of your weight).

 

My couch, your chair.

Eggshell walls, bone ceilings. 

Oak floors, our age.

 

You pick through books.

Flawed plots and anachronisms, 

annoy you.

 

I magnify the tablet’s screen. 

Faces fray, words blur, lines jump.  

My two-finger typing, a chaos of goofs.

 

We confuse the day of the week.

Mark evening by lights turned on.

Monday’s chemo, our rousing excursion.

 

Silent hours, minutes collected 

during absorption and naps.

Numb from serenity. life’s a lullaby.

​

Lustful, 

we arrange pillows 

to cushion our scars.

 

But your colon spasms or 

fatigue leaves me worthless. 

We agree. Tomorrow will be better.