Greg Versus the Zombie

During visiting hours
they played Connect 4.
'Thought you'd be sick
of grapes,' said Greg,
first time he flipped the lid.
'Grapes are my favourite,' she said.

Greg lived to win.
He was always red,
stacked his pieces like poker chips,
built ramparts,
rapped the table when she dawdled.
He should have thrashed her,
straight sets - she was doped up
like a seventies rockstar -
but Greg was in love
with diagonals.
He spurned easy victories,
plopping discs in neutral territory,
clinging on for that beautiful backslash.
As the cancer spread to her lymph nodes,
'How's your Mum bearing up, Greg?'
his patterns grew more elaborate;
chevrons, diamonds, and once
a cross:
red, no diagonals.