After final goodbyes to a beloved in Packard Children’s Hospital,
we had brunch in the private doctors’ hushed dining room
where we overheard the tumor board chair
speak softly to an emaciated bald lady
about a possible last infusion.
My blooming daughter asked me,
“Is infusion the same as transfusion?”
Her mother offered, “The latter's blood,
the former's likely chemotherapy for cancer.
Big sister suggested what appeared to be a non sequitur,
“Do you remember making us take rose petal infusions for bloating?”
Up the hill through the forest, opening the mailbox in our notorious
lovers-lane cul-de-sac, I spot yet another perennial used condom.
Everyone noticed, but no one discussed though we all blushed.