“You’ve visitors,” she said,
and drew the curtain back to show
a group of friends, unease
fixed, rigid, on uncertain faces,
arms full of fruit and chocolate
for me still Nil By Mouth.
“This is just the three of us.
The rest are coming after work.”
(Please, don’t let them feel they have to.)
Then, anxious round the bed, in turns
light-hearted and encouraging
while trying not to let me catch them
staring at my bags of draining gunge.
“The Nurse seems nice.”
“How's the food?”
“You’re looking great.”
“Jane’s Dad's just died of . . . Oops! I’m sorry.”
(Say something, somebody. . . .)
“It’s getting late.”
“The M4’s really bad.”
“Flora's School Play starts at four.”
“We’ll all be back tomorrow.”
“Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.”
Then from the corridor,
“I need a drink.” “Me too!”
“He looks so tired and ill.”
(Thank you. I am.)
Your card said, “I won’t come.
But I’ll be there beside your bed
among the well-meant grapes,
watching quietly, fingers crossed
for just as long as you may need me.”
(Please don't move from there till I am well.)