12 July 2012


this fabric frayed at the edges,
the binding worn, the
floral plain faded from
washings and dryings
this common comfort folded
and placed next to
the stack of new towels, jewel-bright,
magazine-layout fresh

echos of the sickroom, the
anxious nights waiting for
the fever to break, minutes
turning to hours waiting for a
word, for ordinary hunger
to return, like a lost friend,
familiar, who you happily feed

but, before that, the measuring of
medicine with quavering hands,
squinting at text too-small-almost-
to-read, the temperature-taking and
the wordless prayer, in every breath,
that all will be well

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