Take each day as it comes; live
for the moment. Carpe diem and all that crap –
that’s what they would have me believe.
People mean well, but as pain
gnaws at my spine and syringe drivers
don’t work anymore, she pads, black stockinged,
through my mind – lace up shoes
down the road to nowhere,
to my room; feeds me ice-cubes
off a spoon. Asks me what date
I’m aiming for.
The thirty-first of April, I mouth.
She turns my iron-framed bed
to face the window and with daffodils
in bud, I anticipate their blooming –
not here, but in a garden of my choosing.
Reaching for my hand - so pale, so white
in hers, her strength is mine. Not in the holding
but in the letting go.
Life is a gift, they told me and so I grabbed it
with both hands. Today, I spit in the eye
of he, who would deign to take it back.