In his office I twiddle my thumbs. Remembering blood red
poppies in a field in a painting at the National.
*** and risk rub together like skin on teeth.
Occasionally he throws me a glance, his skin paunched
and heavy
Eyes like a basset hound.
A mans terminal illness dictated like a
sonnet,
The final enemy is death.
His hands cupped like the goblet that holds the blessed communion,
his diction the holy bread
dissolving on the top of his tongue.
Eventually he turns to me and asks
“where is it that you have come from?”
The thin light pours in through his slatted blinds
and my shyness seems to stretch into eternity:
you are my obsession -
“I used to care for people with blood cancer”
I croak.
