A shortage of tomorrows

The lymphoma is back.
Few options for reprieve
but a smile of recognition
as she tries to rise
from firmly tucked sheets.
The woman by her side turns,
a likeness in fair skin and hair—
the patient’s kept short,
her daughter’s neatly coiled.

Uneasy with silence,
the well ones inflate talk balloons,
watched keenly from the bed.

Another door. Cancer inside.
Time’s shrunk to today
and there’s a shortage of tomorrows.

Seeing him, my words fall about
in their rush to fill the void, no time
to assume a decent sentiment.
Hospitals should issue disposable muzzles
to stop babble escaping self-conscious lips.
A precursor, perhaps, to laughter
that erupts unbidden at a funeral.

Fifty three years a couple,
he faces leaving a wife who fears
being left half alive.
He says he’s not afraid of dying
and I’m relieved he can speak
of what’s to come
for his denial would deny us all
the chance to make amends,
to speak of love, to …

Now there’s no denying
that they’re gone.