Epidemic

The scan uncovered
a new part of my brain:
the love lobe.

In the deep-sea colours
of the x-ray slide
it glowed a jellyfish purple.

"It's spreading," the pretty doctor
said, "you must warn everyone
you've ever known."

I rang them all from Alan to Zara
but I could tell it was too late.
With each call I ticked off the symptoms:

"Is a sense of well-being
keeping you up at night?
Is over-smiling becoming a problem?

Do people ask you:
'what are you so happy about?'"
Slighted family, forgotten flatmates,

casual acquaintances who I'd met
maybe once or twice
picked up their phones and had time to chat.

Ex-girlfriends who used to be wary
were nice as an aunty.
Something is very wrong with that.

The disorder crossed cable cars of saliva.
Travelled phone lines on a nothing, whispered.
Infections squeezed from palm to palm

or in the sharing of a three-course meal.
It sprung from flowers, particularly roses.
It lived in caramel centres

and pet shop windows.
Soon, the epidemic
had cinema back rows

packed as scrums,
the botanic gardens overrun
and silhouettes on cliff tops

like miles of paper cut-outs
holding hands. I returned to the doctor
for a routine check up

that quickly turned into surgery
and romance: picking me up
like a new born

she took me to theatre.
"Morpheus is the Greek God
of sleep," she swooned

before putting me under.
I awoke on a sofa in her house,
cocoa cooling to my side.

"I decided not to operate,"
she said, "instead I thought maybe we
could get to know each other better.

Patient-doctor relationships
are just so? clinical,"
And after we'd framed

the x-rays and hung them
above our bed
we decided to adopt an orphan

she'd seen at the hospital. A sweet
little boy who'd had butterfly
stitches all in his stomach.

And from that day forth
we lived in near perfect bliss.
We paid no regard

to being rich or poor
or how many stories our house had.
Only one thing concerned us

when no-one was watching:
what's going to happen
if they discover a cure?