There was a grape
Wedged between the drip
and the cupboard.
Missed by the cleaners who didn’t want to disturb the tubes and wires
At night, he would lie on his side and watch it
Trying to remember its colour before the lights went out
Comparing it in the morning
Bruised and wrinkled.
He wondered if it could still make wine
A thimble.
If there was something that could be done
Too late.
Yet, sometimes, just after breakfast
When he had brushed the toast crumbs from his chin and wiped the jam from his fingers
The sun would catch in such a way
Flaring the brown a fantastic red
Cutting a ruby on the floor
Before fading back to a grape between the tubes
and the doctors’ feet.