She visited on a Sunday.

She went in, “Hello, it’s me here.”
But he barely opened his eyes.
Until he did.
And he asked for the time.

She was going to leave, but the nurses urged her to stay.
To talk to him.
So, of course, she did.
For ten minutes, whilst he slept.

The previous visit she’d taken him an old photo to look at.
There was a poem on the back.
She said it was about ships going out to sea.
She said it sounded like dying.

He’d asked her to put the photo at the end of the bed for him to see.

Sleep tight.