Sickbed

I float from room to room, a dust mote in moonlight,
shivery, thirsty, tired as a tom cat at noon,
teeth sticky from gnawing cough drops.

This flu is a dream and you are the moon.

Feverish and small, cold feet on kitchen linoleum,
I push open the window and climb onto its ledge.
Can you see me? When you rise, I can’t reach.

For more by this author, read:

Honey at the Bottom

PROPHESY

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