Flu Poem for Winifred
Examine, won't you dear?—
This miasma of beigen snot.
With a consistency of a glob of Elmer's
Six. Hours. Old.
Want to play Who's Worse Off?
Better bring your A-game.
Think I just saw smurfs on the ceiling.
Leaving. Snail. Trails.
Placental in my zebra-striped bankie,
Pillows propping me like a porcelain dolly,
There's nothing dainty about
Red. Streaked. Coughs.
Even the kitties,
Who are wont to lick their asses,
Shy away from this train wreck. I've
Crossed. Their. Line.
Imagine the tiniest meal,
Of chicken soup, a piece of fruit,
A bowl of phở…
Linda. Blair. Anyone?
If there's a silver lining,
It's the knowledge that tomorrow, on the plane,
I will infect everyone on their way to
The. Oh. Cee.