Prose poem...sort of

On his left eyelid Brock has 143 eyelashes. I’m thinking this is a whole lot and they’re long ones too, considering I pull out about ten of mine per day, while he’s telling me this is the last time he will ever drink this way. I pull the blanket to his chin and he’s close to shivers. One of 143 eyelashes is white— anomaly, or prescience? His beard is lovely red and I count those hairs too, but in the three-hundreds descending the valley of the chin I give up and guess, You’ve got 1,846 facial hairs. This really is the last time, he says. Give everyone love, tell them I meant no harm. Now, am I listening, I tell myself. And I see, on the blackboard of my mind: cirrhosis and psoriasis—both hard to spell and say. Now, I am scratching thin white patches from his head. He can’t hear his thoughts when I scratch his head, he says, but can he feel them. So I wonder: while I’m scratching his head, am I creating new Brock-thoughts? Brooke-fingernail, meet Brock-thought. Say everything is gonna be alright. Sing the three little birds song. Right now nothing will be buggy again. I try anyway: Is this the 143rd convalescence? Is this my 143th time scratching and counting and not listening with my concerned listening face? Are there 143 ways for me to love him? I’m still counting.