You’re ill in bed.
You think you’re
Dying, but no one

Will affirm or deny,
They just come and

Go with smiles and
Kind words and only
Molly comes to wash

And change you and
Feed what little will

Stay down. The bed
Creaks when you move,
The phone beside the

Bed never rings, the
Curtains let in little

Light, the clutter of
Years of living hang
On walls or sit idle on

Shelves gathering dust
Despite Molly doing her

Best and being quite
The one for work and
Bustle. You miss her

When she doesn’t come,
You miss her gentleness,

Her soft touch to brow
And body. But when he
Comes with his beady eyes

And gruff words you feel
The closeness of death

Breathing in your *****.
He’s gone now, business
In the city, meeting to be

Arranged, money to make,
Life to be lived. The house

Is silent now, except for
The far away sounds of
Passing traffic in the street,

The hushing voices down
In the hall or on the corridor

Outside your door. Your body
Aches; the memory of love
And embraces and kissing are

Fading into gloom of day after
Dayness. The children are kept

Away to prevent the spread,
You hear their voices, their
Running feet, soft, soft, soft,

Gone. The time must be getting
Late, you feel the need to urinate,

You wish the curtains were open,
Wish the light would invade.
He comes and stands by your

Bed looking to see if you’re still
Living, he’ll come to the room

Smiling once he hears that you’re
Dead. Molly comes just in time,
Her gentle hands, her soft voice,

Wipes your brow, pumps the pillows
Beneath your head. Just a nursemaid
Now, no more the lover in your bed.