Recuperation and my right foot

Your eyes drift to the window
outside, the birch trees have dropped
dark nets on the day
that tangle of branches fishes my mood
increasing the sense that each day
is a long night and you’re anybody’s
propped doll there for the taking
now snow falls in thick plops
hungrily absorbed by the wet earth

The dog regards this passage from sky to soil
with equanimity
at half past four you’re already
thinking of dinner gauging hunger levels
wondering if you should cut back
given that you hardly move these days
your propped foot a sarcophagus
all the secrets of metatarsals
bound in a regime of metal rods
cotton bandage one fascist black boot

So the next meal he tells you
will be grilled fish
you think about that and wonder
if you should mention greens too

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