I Have A Cold.
Run those sodden streams, those
rivulets of ooze, to fall beneath the
tingle and the torment, in torrents
no tissue can assuage.
And now…the sweating starts, oh
joy. Just the cough to come
it waits with baited breath, upon
constriction of the lungs, barking
like an angered hound when
silence drains the hour.