An Opal Apron

A writer describes the sky
Somewhere in the South of France.

That’s fine. Another writer
Falls asleep in a bright room.

The children of these writers
Worry about their parents

And the ways that they’re dying
By varying consumptions,

The opal apron writer
Losing memory at speed,

The sunny sleeper losing
Vital organs to pirates

Rampaging the inland sea.
The writers are connected

By their lust for fine writing,
Which means, from their points of view,

That the writer in more pain
But not losing language yet

Would seem the more fortunate.
Opal apron, though. That’s good.

Sometimes being stuck with less
To work with means better work—

But was the phrase meant to be
Oval apron and opal

Only popped up by mistake
When the writer lost oval

And substituted opal,
A fortunate improvement

Of weird hue for a bland shape?
You could ask, but they’re asleep.