Having a Cold, Quickly Gets Old
I miss the play of outside sunshine,
But the nose knows it’s safer to quaver,
From going outdoors, acting sanguine.
Raw throat, stalled breathing - I’m on the floor,
Caused by flying too close to the ceiling.
Snow was in store, but I dressed poor,
Saw the sights, had too good a time,
Impulses attended, weather ignored.
Now it’s chicken soup in place of wine.
Emotions - once pleasures, now bore;
Strength - once coiled rope, now balled twine.
Even the apple of my eye seems cored.
If mindful for a change - symptoms will decline,
As the coughing nasal squeak turns quietly into a roar.
Meanwhile, I’ll buy shares in the Kleenex line,
I have a hunch - my use of tissue cause prices to soar.
Copyright © Chaim Wilson | Year Posted 2014
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