I.
I bury cold feet under the dog,
Ignorantly pleased companion,
Who senses not that something is wrong,
but for once something is right.
I am home, we share the couch,
She reminds me that this is the life,
So I sneeze on her.

II.
A city of cups and mugs,
Curved, avant-garde suburb
half-flooded with tea and elixirs
sprawls across the table.
Hedged with tissues
Bridged with debris and silver
foil from the medicine man.

III.
I have two allies, though untrusted:
The refrigerator, yielding sternly
To my constant demands for some vague comfort.
The medicine box: my plastic apothecary
Suggesting, urging, contradosing
Try everything, try it all,
There must be your salvation here.

IV.
The twitchy skin of the sickbed,
Taut and thin through neglect and sulking,
A fidgeting, forgetful fret
of restless, forced stillness.
I glance around: my world is smaller,
And I hate every corner. Taste wrong,
smell gone, and sore, hot fingers,
leaves no pleasure unmarred.