Apology
Only a self truly can apologize
not the mess of organs cells and molecules,
that make it necessary.
I’m sorry to be sick again,
on our anniversary’s eve.
In its seventh day, the cold
I thought was on the run,
succumbing to defenders
in phlegmy piles of corpses,
has left me no less weak this sunny morning
than when it brought me down in wind and rain,
despite the shampoo, shave and change of clothes
I hoped would mean recovery.
The card I’d made to mark our harvest years
together with the close
of this prolonged ordeal
sits waiting in the drawer,
likely now to signify a date
for patience rather than a party.
Only a self truly can forgive
not a flow of passing feelings,
a solid self, forged once
and tempered all this time.