(for Clifford)

Lying in bed, thinking about the antibiotic
that needs taking, trying to figure out

what to eat with it that my recovering
innards will tolerate besides applesauce,

I have a rare wish: that he were here
to scramble a plain egg in a tiny bit

of olive oil, as he taught me, that I could
make the request and he would deliver it

to me in bed, on a plate with fork and
paper towel (our go-to napkin), teasing me

about how he resisted the urge to salt
and pepper it at the very least, add a bit

of garlic, maybe confetti some parsley
on top. But for me: one simple egg.

Because I asked. Because it was
no trouble, the least he could do,

he’d say, never understanding how
it was so much more than that.