“Are you okay?”,

my wife asks

when I cough.

“No. I’m fine.

Yes. I’m not”,

I respond,

stumping her

in the poetic irony

of words that

encompass the

yes and no

and the in between.

She flips the finger

at me and I return

the bird to the nest.

We go back to our life

and our tablets,

the drip, drip of my chemo

and I wonder about okay.

“No. You’re fine.

Yes. You’re not.”,

the bag stares in response.