I can feel the sickness

Settling in

I hear it deep in my bones

That creaking, groaning,

Raspy sigh,

The rattle in the back of your throat.

The cough that makes you feel

Like a chain-smoker of years and years

A pack a day, two packs,

Six,

[of cough drops – not cigarettes.]

Your nose is full,

You feel it drip

And run

And drool

Over your face and

Onto your arms

Down your sleeves and into the

Trashcans,

Ferried by little soft blankets,

Rough woolen blankets,

Burlap sacks.

Your joints may ache

Your toes may sneeze with you

You wrap yourself in your sheets –

Just in time to toss them away –

Oh here comes the heat.

Your forehead rages, your brain implodes,

Your fingers are clammy and damp.

And still,

You wait, struggling yet,

For three days,

Four days, five days or more –

[you had better call a doctor.]

Finally, the curtain lifts

The haze of mucus is gone.

You can

[at least]

See clearly now,

Though your throat is inclined to disagree.

You sound like a bullfrog,

Then even it disappears,

It swallows itself down into your gut.

Leaving you with naught but a whisper,

A squeak,

A mere feeble sound to express yourself with.

At last, five months later

[or more]

It’s totally gone, finally gone,

Life is a picnic again.

And just in time