The Drugs Don't Work

Next to you in the swirl of sheets, and the warmth of your slight form in the dim light of morning, I would forget your young woman’s old man features and the veins visible and traceable across your cranium. I would make plans for the day, knowing full well you wouldn’t be up to any of them, though you might ask me to read to you later in the afternoon. You didn’t cook for me anymore then, and sadly I could not pay you back for all the time before when you did, as I would burn boiling water. All those clothes that no longer fit you are not taking up space here, and I am sure Saint Vincent de Paul’s people have provided some worthies with extra warmth; although I will say I was offended when they insisted I prove I had had them cleaned. I still look into the books from time to time, but the stories’ characters have moved on as we have, I in my simplified actionless days, a holdover from ours together, and you to some place I am not prepared to be at this moment in time. Oh, dear God, how I miss your beatific smile in spite of all that could go wrong doing so.