sick day.

i noticed you,
neighbor.
when you were
slicing an onion
in your purple kitchen
filled with
odds
and
ends
and things that seem better suited
for
storage.

i was sitting in my sick bed.
the red headboard
supporting
my fiery throat
my neck cushioned
on black and white west elm.
my body wrapped
in my comfort quilt.

it was evening
but i could only stomach
tea.
and lifetime television for women.

but just outside my burnt-toast walls
yours were filled with
chop
chop
chop
and
lit burners
simmering a
cookbook
recipe.

and i
in my flannel
gripping my thermometer
wondered if by adding
olive oil
you could add depth
to the flavor profile
of your
night.