It's Still Life

Of Those Who Leave

Mike is dying.

Slowly enough
to count by months.

December, pneumonia.
January,
his gallbladder gone.

I take Lindy out for lunch,

an afternoon away
from the smells
of the sick room.

We talk
about ordinary things.

The afternoon is hers
for the asking.

She stares past the door,
into the hallway,

but her thoughts stop
where her fingers
grip the fork.

She says,

I don’t want to be here.

And I know
she does not mean

this restaurant,
this table,
or me.

She means

something else.

Written for Writers’ Digest Poem-a-Day Challenge for April 2026. Prompt word: Unidentified

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