I remember it, you
not so much. No. 10 staples,
unused, I’ve brought them.
The store is still there. You said,
regularly, you didn’t want
to sell stationery your whole life.
Pencils end up lost, pens run out,
like a lot of things. The inevitability
of it smacks you like a migraine, I got it.

Soon we became stapled, painlessly,
together. The mossy green jumper,
mine, you wore it. Your knitted-by-grandmother
scarf, sunflowers, I wore
sometimes. Routines we made
ourselves, the right shade of tea,
word puzzles before bed.
All falling into place, a quiet click,
seamless.

Then, restless. Fidgety. A classic
different directions situation. Thankfully,
amicable. Just as seamlessly, clicked
apart. Now here, the staples, leftover
silvered remnants. Still boxed. Use them?
I could, but couldn’t. What was reduced
to stationery. Runs out like a lot of things.
Inevitable, I guess, I got it.

the pink clouds move slow
slow like i was tricked by the years

gleaming over grass i walked
by feet
small in saturday's shoes

sharp patch grass and dirt that stuck to my back
replaced by the warmth of wood chips
familial love reflects off the set up sign
  swaying on the lawn

i feel its burn in my eyes

the ice cream man drives by
i guess the best flavor isn't in stock anymore

the sun keeps setting on my dreams to escape  
i already woke up from it all

Hey someone, in charge, I’m talking to you
across a vast ocean of errors numbered 502.

Please, put a quarter in the little slot that dispenses the feed,
so, the little gray squirrel gets what he needs,
to spin the little aluminum wheel that generates
the Susie-Bake oven light which facilitates
the solar cells powering the 1984 Tandy desktop,
that’s the Hello Poetry server - it’s ground to a stop.

We love that squirrel, and if we sound cloying,
it’s because we find the constant 502 errors annoying.

“Are you okay?”,
my wife asks
when I cough.

“No. I’m fine.
Yes. I’m not”,
I respond,

stumping her
in the poetic irony
of words that

encompass the
yes and no
and the in between.

She flips the finger
at me and I return
the bird to the nest.

We go back to our life
and our tablets,
the drip, drip of my chemo
and I wonder about okay.

“No.  You’re fine.
Yes. You’re not.”,
the bag stares in response.

I can hear the sea bed,
I sometimes think I can hear whales and eels,
And pain escaping my body,
I feel so much all the time,
I sometimes think you feel very little and watching you succeed makes me feel worse and isn't that awful?
Eels are covered with a slimy mucus  that allows them to slither around without getting scratched,
I keep dropping myself into water,
For a second of relief,
Healing isn't linear,
And did you know eels can swim backwards and forwards.

Like some kind of Irish David Lynch
I awake, words fuse together
As my synapses spark

Nanosecond choices
Picosecond bonds
Served up to me
Shall I offer to others to see?

Phrases of alien tongue
'The Pernapalise principle'
'The Goodwin ghost'

The day goes by
More synapses fire
Less frequently this time

Normality resumes
I give in to reality
Time for bed