“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.