Swap Shop

The day I learned my wife was dying

the knowledge became a leash clipped

to my collar, a leash in the paw of her illness,

which rose tall above me; and if I thought

of a book, ball game, or chicken dinner,

the leash would be given a sharp yank

to show who was in charge, and whack me

with the fact of her dying. I wore the leash

all day; I wore it at work and when I slept;

I wore it in the shower. A single step

in the wrong direction put it in action

and I’d be flat on my back. You know those

dodgy trade-offs in swap shops? It was like that:

all my thoughts traded for the one I dreaded.