Bedridden

Under the covers, under the weather.

a sniffling mess
who drools out of
the corners of the eyes
leaving trails of tissues
from one room to the next
a rush hour congestion
within a pounding head
turn up the heat
turn down the heat
a petri dish yoyo of ails
a spastic dance with
each and every cough
a nixonian clearing
of the throat
lacking in virility
lacking in a pulse
somehow
still beautiful to you
returning home from work
with pistachio ice cream
to soothe a reddened throat
as you soothe a tempered soul


— Mark Butkus