Donna Sturmanis - netherworld

You are now in your
grey army phase­—
khaki and olive
who-cares-clothes,
regulation boots.
Not ready to impress anyone
with a spruce-up,
even me coming to town.
You describe the others
closest to you
besides me—
all long-term HIV:
Chain-smoking Ed
with one lung—
rye-guzzling, master-worshipping
Cecil, so sleepy on new meds
to up his white cell count.
His eyes roll up in his lids
while he renovates your kitchen
yet plans to go to a party.
You throw your energy
into work, hockey and renovating
your kitchen even though
your rent may go up;
you may have to move.

You sleep, read, don’t answer the phone,
prefer to be alone
in this curtain-shaded
West End apartment in the trees,
all dusty, in disarray—
pillows, clothes, skates,
scattered, thrown. 

Can’t afford to get sentimental, you say.

From a darkened livingroom
you still appreciate
autumn leaves through the curved window,
moving against the blue sky,
like Tiffany glass.