It's because I'm not concentrating.
Too busy with thoughts of
what will happen when you die
The toast gets caught
and browns too much
The ashes get scraped away –
A strange dream that I can't even remember
makes me pinch my nose.

Last week when we stood in the garden
eating bitter herbs
I laughed at the faces you pulled
as you spat them in the border –
I tried to feed you primroses
but you drew the line at flowers.
And now you tell me that you've
lost your sense of humour
phone me from work just to say
everything I've ever thought
is worthless.
I try to understand your point of view
then realise it's easier if I don't.