Flu (In the Coop)
Who jammed that Bic
in my right ear?
What magpie mistakes my eye
for its best marble?
Rib cage so brittle that
Mortality barely rattles, then
marauds, gnawing joints
with equal-opportunity slaver–
I tell myself, batting him back,
how different I’ll be
when he’s pacified;
my mind, even as chest cough-quakes, says
“yeah, sure.”
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Sorry for yet another flu poem. And my husband says it’s too gloomy, that I really will be different when I recover. Whatever. Here’s 55 of the most plaintive for the G-man.
ManicDDaily 
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