sick day: reflections on being loved

occasionally a cold comes on

like a miracle

maybe it is

a miracle

maybe molecular turf wars

suicide bombers in the Holy Land

it could be magic

or local tragedy

come just in time to bring the lucidity of an uncluttered afternoon –

I cough up recollections

of childhood heating pads

am swathed in VapoRub visions of self from afar and within

finally get it

finally get the love –

poor forlorn children in the corner look like Oliver Twists starving beneath my eyelids.

This morning a ragged man was waiting at my neighbors’ curb

guarding trash day’s broken furniture

like rare treasure.

I lie back now and listen to the furnace hum.