The Enemy Within
Door closed
Maisie bounded from
behind the sofa
fresh with the scent of winter
we measure the days and hours in Maisie time
Locked in the moment
he shrugged off a
scraped and bloodied face –
oblique commentary on a parallel universe
Mud and grass stains
are part of the game – then
bundled to disappear in the laundry
charmed by her world, past
and future are left behind – by
evening we dined and joked with friends
Was it the
concussion, or
swelling and black eye
that jerked us as
abruptly back into the disease
as the moment he hit the pavement?
Slightly off balance
we smiled and joked
through the next several days
Snow has been
replaced by snowdrops and
ice by sprouting daffodil tips
all that remains is one
irregularly-shaped patch of pink on his temple
I watch him install
a puppy gate in the car while
she searches for sticks nearby
moving to the cadence of Maisie time
Perhaps, Flyboy, it
makes sense in its own way
disease or no –
the sky was ever your playground
