A Really Sick Poem

So today I am home, absolutely miserable with some sort of cold/flu thingummy that Thank The Almighty hasn't hit my husband like it's hit me. I am horrendously bored. Husband is watching football, and is (understandably) trying to steer clear of me. He has practically no immune system, so even a cold could land him in the hospital for a week.

The last time I was sick was this past summer, and I wrote a poem. I don't think it's a bad poem. Before this, I hadn't actually written any poetry for a few years (the last ones coming out of a really messy breakup).

Being as bored as I am, and possessing zero degrees of energy or creativity, I shall inflict my old poem on you.

Midsummer Cold 07/23/2004

The air is still
And thick with germs.
A Yellow Something
Covers everything.

My head is full of cotton and molasses
And something raw.

He’s sprawled on our bed, bloated, oily.
I’m on the couch fantasizing about
French Sarcastic Men.

Everything stinks of the Common Cold.
Everything needs to be hosed down with
Mint and ice water.

Everything will be over in twenty four hours time
Aided by Pseudophedrine.

But right now I want a valet
A Jeeves.
Someone to scrub all the ich out of my home and bring
Me Peppermint tea.

Or a Long Island Iced Tea.
Medicine of a different kind.

I want someone to e-mail me something funny
Or dirty
Or French
Or all three.

I want to go swimming.
That’s random!

I want to stop typing.

I’ll go disinfect something.