In 2008,
I lay upon the floor,  
disabled,
pain hobbled,
my back
unable to properly space
the Lego discs
that keep a man
upright


king and absolute ruler,
was I
of the carpet.
in the little blue room
off the kitchen,
where solace
in loneliness,
was my little
heaven in hell.

It was my blue period,
When you decided to leave
And try to take everything
But hang around our apartment
to practice, practice
making misery your profession.

It was the same
little blue room,
years before
I ran to,
for a few hours rest
after tending to you,
nursing your cancer needs,
fetching, most fetching,
I fetched and fluffed,
shopped and tended,
and comforted,
after working all day.

Now three years on,
on the floor
of the same little blue room,
unable to move,
weakly, wounded,
brokebacked,
I was a soldier,
in a deep trench,
almost paralyzed,
caught tween desk and bed
called your name,
even though there was
nothing you could have done.

Role reversal,
years later,
roll reversal,
roll from the bed to the floor,
fallen, immobilized,
I rued
the morning light,
for men must work and
women must weep,
work and weep,
this morning,
I was responsible for both.

I called you name repeatedly,
in a peculiar voice, agreed,
the voice of wrack and ruination,
after hearing you slippers
shuffle a two step at 2 Am,
outside the little blue room,
oh for many a minute,
in the middle of the night,
calling, calling
perhaps, you would help
me to rise,
oh yes,
just to help me stand,
on my bent back,
my own legs

Somehow one finds a way,
is it not always that way?

Later, I asked.

Did you hear me call you name
in the middle of the night?

Oh yes.
But your voice sounded so weird,
I would not go in.

Years later, I asked again.

Just get over it,
you replied,
matter of factly.

Today, years later,
I ask again,
right now, right here,
I ask
but a different question.

Do you think I am over it now?

Oct 15th 2011