She’s arranging flowers

between beds.

Same time each day

taking out dead,

and replacing

with fresh.

If she strolled

around my

flower beds,

and borders,

she’d

see me

as the man

I used to be,

with gnarled,

weather-beaten

hands,

and not the bony,

cancer-ridden

carcass

I inhabit today.

But

she’s arranging flowers again

to cover

the smell of faeces

on the ward.

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