A brother dying of
Metastatic cancer in the ICU,
Can’t say goodbye.
Not even through the porthole windows.
Corona cruelly punishes you for things that you will punish yourself for all eternity,
For not having the time to call, sorry was travelling.
For not being the first to apologise, he started it.
For missing out on birthdays, it’s just the 44th, not a special number.
For telling on him to mother
When he stole that 50p from her purse in the days when 50p was a tangible sum of money.
For yelling at him when he walked in while you were on the phone with your boyfriend, get the fuck out, you spaz, I hope you die.
So you stand outside, across the road from the hospital
And stare hard at the fifth floor that houses the palliative care patients.
Palliative care a euphemism for those beyond help.
You hope he’s on morphine to ease the worst of the pain while you across the street are
Writhing in regret and remorse.