Invalid Daydream

It’s harder to fantasize
What you’ll do when you’ll be gone
Soon. The dead can’t spend windfalls,

And the desperately ill
Can’t live as remote hermits.
So much for day-dreamed futures.

And yet this is a future
Of a sort, this recent past
That keeps on minting itself,

Where you sit wrapped in blankets
And chronic complaints, watching

A wren hop by the window,
Wind in the sapling’s spring leaves.