Sick Room
The air is too thick.
There are too many pillows
propping and plumping.
“I may be here tomorrow,”
you say and smile—wink.
It makes me think of
all the poor little wax-eyes
I took from our cats
when I was a girl, how I’d
place them in boxes
overnight, only for them
to die by morning,
shocked by warm comfort’s surfeit,
humane contrivance of space.
