Flu
After you left me saying your last words
I hung out with the boys in the backyard
Smoking pot and watching the evening birds fly away.
They get so tiny, like the pockmarks on the coffee-table
Where we spent more time talking about books than sipping coffee.
You walked my attentive dog and fed the birds
Sometimes even helped out with the laundry and dishes.
When we made love, you held onto me tenderly
Like a soft creeper made of clouds.
Leaving was out of the question
Until you asked me to define us —
Where we were going, who we were to each other.
I couldn’t put a finger on it, like I couldn’t define most things,
Like the colour grey.
I had a lot of things to tell you before you decided to move away
But I was quite unwell,
Stewing chicken and vegetables
Otherwise, I wouldn’t have let you have the last word.
