Thyme Stain

The kitchen steam, a cloud,

thick with chicken fat and salt.

Reached for the dried thyme,

its dusty green crumbles

between my fingers.

That smell.

Not just dinner.

That Tuesday,

the antiseptic wipe of the waiting room,

the low hum of the machine down the hall.

That same dried herb, clinging

to my sleeve, my breath, a ghost

in the air I tried to make clean.

The spoon clinks against the pot,

a false comfort.

The soup, a good brown,

but the taste of it now,

just that faint, metallic edge.