This Morning I Am Listening to Roger Miller’s Lowest Notes

I saw how she felt, so I sang along.
Not like before, when I wanted the sick
one to follow my cheerful tune. This time
I let the rhythm slow, eschewed the trick

of insisting she’ll be okay. What if the bone
doesn’t heal? What if the rungs of the spine
don’t reknit? I didn’t ask this, understand.
I just unfrowned my brow and took her hand.

She stroked mine, too, said, “Have you
ever seen anything as pretty?” and
of my love, “Is he not the sweetest man?
We rang the bedside bell. In a few,

a nurse arrived to dose her under once
more. Her gaze went blank for the nonce.

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