A Good Day to Die

Every other Wednesday,

we sat C-shaped near the same yawning window,

and morning slipped in —

leg first —

tumbling over all the breakfast things.

You feel for the warm

crust near your thumb,

and the curve of

the pink porcelain cup of ordinary,

and the puddle of butter next to the pimpled strawberries,

diced into neat squares.

The results came back

It’s pancreatic.