that you sent,
a get-well bouquet,
on the table are too bright,
from here,
this length of sofa i lie upon.
i'm unsure of what
the proper
flower is for ill health,
but red roses
feels wrong.
perhaps they'll fade
and die
in limp arms before
i return home.
the history of my life
is in the hands
of others now,
as i wait
for them to arrive and
wheel me
out, down the three steps
of concrete
i used to sit upon
and sun myself. once
so young.
have i ever told you
that i miss you
coming around?
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