'Crimson'

There is a man in the suburbs
Whose heart keeps leaking.

Crimson creeping
     up into the cotton
of all his best shirts.
County police,
International doctors and scientists
investigate
with fascination.

Confused,
they concede to take him to the Undertakers
for sugar.

Tonight, while he sleeps
Mummified tightly in gauze,
his wife grips
his hand, and whispers a confession.

I have begun to regret your injuries less.

Squeezing the hand harder,
she smiles softly at the crimson
spreading across the surface,
infecting
one fibre at a time.