Laundry deserved to be folded
permission slips signed
the phone charged
but there wasn’t enough peanut butter
for a proper sandwich.
The toothpaste was crusty in the sink
and the volume of the Morning Show
too loud but the cough would not wait
on any of it.
The leftovers were sour in the trash
and the light bulb blew out in the hall;
the cushions were smooshed on the couch
and a donut had fallen in a rush to breakfast
its sticky footprint darkening and travelling
through every room, the cough following it
with wet wipes and a rush
to the eggs boiling over, the toast done too soon;
cooling too quickly,
and the car idling in a promise of a warm
if not easy commute, maybe honey
for the cough that would not wait.
The sky warned snow
as a bruise painted itself
between your calf and ankle
in similar blues; purple behind the tips of the barren trees.
There at the door jamb twisted in an improbable angle
you face this sky with eyes wide and wet,
the impatient last cough stuck in your throat
so that you cannot call Time.