He cried for me You came too late;

a miss with no bucket.

Panic: Is this the pandemic

or that eternal bug he had last fall?

I’ll let him watch TV,

snuggle against me in bed.

He says he’s ok to watch this cook-off, not nauseous.

His arm comforts me,

sweaty against my arm.

I bring him a cool cloth, chicken soup,

a box of sorry pretzel crumbs.

The tall girl wins with a fruit tart

despite too much whipped cream.

I’m supposed to work or at least make dinner.

I stay.

 

I stay,

supposing I should. At least I can. I make dinner –

desperate, too much. I’m whipped cream,

a not-all-there girl wanting to win something, tart.

Sorry, I mumble, pretzeled

with a cool cloth, chicken soup, 

his sweaty arm against

my arm. Comfort me, 

he says. He wants to watch me cook – Isn’t it nauseating?

Snuggle against me. I get him in bed,

let him watch TV

for an eternity. My bug-out has lasted since winter:

the pandemic panic.

I’m amiss; I can’t buck up.

I cry for me; he calms. Too late.