by Cameron Morse
Vampire you call me, leaving for work,
me at home, on SSI, unemployed.
Vampire for shutting the door
to my study, for lowering
the blinds, for sucking, sucking
you dry: my cook, my bank, my wife.
You’re right. I’m not the man you married
anymore: October, took my Temodar,
quarantined to the basement, on the chemo
couch, drained, watching daytime
TV: Jerry Springer, my only light source.
Other than you, of course. You held me
upright so that I could see the screen,
you helped me up the stairs, baby
steps, into your icicled birdbath,
your skyful of falling leaves.