My husband, My Dan, my hero, my always-there-man,
Recently identified himself as fragile.
I dislike that truthful word.
Fragile things nap hours a day in their chair,
A dog at their feet, a robe across their laps.
They breathe in shallow gulps,
Their hands hugging their chest,
Their heart and kidneys in a fight
To the death.
Fragile things seem more aware of the wind,
Less concerned with the news of the day.
They miss salt on their food.
They accept when their right eye
Can no longer see anything but shadow.
Thank god for the left eye, they say.
Fragile things want nothing more than to golf again,
Their ball sailing through a pale blue sky they
No longer see.
Fragile things just want a shake of salt.