Post Op II

Doc says
          surgery went well
shakes my drug induced hand
          anything bothering you?

          Abdomen?
          Sides?
          Stomach?

I tell him
I'm color blind.

I noticed
filling out tax forms
that included the vacation we took
                                                    to New England
but not the journal
you bought
                                                     in that Providence curiosity shop;

you noted
the extra P and E spelling.

Your first entry in our journal
                                         P&E
I though it a tribute to
                                         A&P
Updike would smile, wink;
                                         A&E
you said, pushing a bony elbow
into a lower rib, rattling off
five shows I've never seen
because you're the pop culture
artist between us.

I tell the doc
the ribs

to clarify

do not hurt.

Back and forth
the journal exchanged
your hand, my
hand, your pen,
my pen, yours
blue, my black.

My colorblindness
outed itself
between tax lines 42
                               "dependents"
                     and 45
                               "sheltered annuities"
when my blue pen
ran out of ink
and I noticed
the ink in my
pen had been
blue all along.

Less concerned
                      am I
about the IRS
kicking through
my hollow
studio apt.
door, knocking off
books you left
behind, picking through
old file folders you
left behind, and
that empty drawer
which used to contain
the main accountant
wardrobe you left
for the week
when you'd stay;

                     no
my real fear
is less legal

finding that damn journal
and not knowing where
you began and I
left off.

          Dancing in the vineyard?
          Hiking the arboretum?
          Sipping drinks at the piano bar?

Doc reminds me
these are not
my concerns.