Quivers in the pasta

 

The children have all arrived,

rushed in, hugged, lingered

 

by my bed. Found places 

to sleep, leafed the photo book,

 

drank wine as they cooked.

Left pasta half-eaten.

 

My I.V. drip has slowed.

Each faint breath floats off

 

like a housefly past claws

of a leaping cat. They play cards,

 

ignore dirty dishes in the sink,

argue about who cheats,

 

pretend not to see the fly

quivers in the pasta.

                            Timothy Pilgrim