You woke with a headache
and opened the bedroom window blind.
You bent forward as morning light came in.
It fell on your belly and breasts
and your sleep maddened hair.
I could hear the sickness in your voice
as you accepted a salad bowl to throw up in
and two pills with breakfast.

The new sun tipped itself up over distant mountains
outside the kitchen window and slapped colour on the houses
across the slope from us, oranges and yellows,
a set of green-blinded windows,
and darker green tops of the thick trees behind.
Two gulls floated past the balcony
wondering what to do with themselves
now that the sun was out and a whole day promised.

Coffee, cereal, your emails, homework
all attended to at the table as the headache dissolved
magically you said, kissing me quickly
as you ran out late to your lessons across town.

The plants on the balcony know nothing of you.
They lean out over the traffic fumes below
and do their best to breathe and grow,
                            to do their part as we all do.

Kevin Brophy