On Sunday mornings big band
music drifts down the street.
Dogs bark. The woman next door calls
her daughter chicken on the phone.
There are no secrets on Phoenix Street.
For a week I have been coughing,
hawking and spluttering night and day.
I’m afraid to show my face
but feeling better, I open the door
and look out—and then I notice
the path strewn with petals, a windfall
from nextdoor’s geraniums.