Came home last night. With a cold,
apparently - woke up with it. Not
too bad. It only hurts
when I cough, which is mostly
when I lie down, which is what
I'd prefer to be doing, big
baby. Anyway,
my voice is pretty deep and sexy,
and it's a dear, drear gray day
outside, with sandhill cranes
cluck-honking and Christmas lights
coming out. In all,
not much
to feel too bad about. And I
don't. Except
this meaningless shock of
anger and despair, that tears
my fucking heart apart and
fills my eyes with tears,
tiny spittle flies through
clenched teeth, head shaking
in a transparent attempt
to add drama to this
poem.
Now that's an ending! Sometimes the best thing for a cold is a bit of drama. Ok, maybe not, but if it makes you feel better and it's for the sake of poetry, go for it!
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