In a Hospital Bed

In the pub or the supermarket or the terrace or the street
or my bathroom, alone, I am keeping it quiet,
away, palatable, the advertised billboard I bought but couldn’t afford
to miss out on, between two logics, and love
for the sake of argument, as I love arguments
when they are debates and I am detached
today, but the billboard still waves at you, and you lap it up
and sign to me, too, in copyright. Sometimes
I press myself out like I’m this here bubblegum pop of a sail

that could take you away to new lands, new lands
where we would go, taking a punt at it, sunshine
sometime, all just meeting us right at the end.
The lord is maybe… just there. A new month.
Suddenly I’m in a hospital bed, not with the advert,
but the wave—all the friends it bought! Their
billboards, too—a card—a kiss from a series. My wife…

No. I couldn’t possibly do that, lover (at best!): I am dying
and we never were—we just sold it to each other as so. Please,
please leave: I was instantly better! We screwed in the car park

like dogs. But not like dogs, you know? Like…
We were talking like teens! So much better.
We bought some dirty clothes and pretended

and it was like we had a dream. We’d never let it go again. We haven’t any books. I can’t even count anymore. I knew I couldn’t spell “sale” but barely noticed at the time.