and I'm the one who prepares it for him.
It waits and cools on the table
as my love is wheeled down the hall
to our breakfast room.
Bits of dried apple and puffs
of cinnamon drift on
this mush the way
lotus and spatterdock
float on the pond.
His eyes fall on it.
The spoon and napkin wait
for him to take the usual four bites
though I hope he will eat it all this time.
My love is so thin.
But not his face.
Still boned and squared.
Not his hair: still full, still thick
as sweetflag around the pond.
But oh God he is so thin.
He is disappearing--
a twig on which a few
last blooms cling--
these last moments
of summer.
