Being sick in October
is a riptide of sensations.
Simultaneously hot — fevered observations
of wind blowing through leaves
trembling — and cold. Too cold.
Chills that cut through layers of hoodies
And fluffy blankets that do nothing
Except turn me into a spit-roast,
and my coffees and teas
into melted glaciers— left overly long.
Trapped heat from my shower
Lingers as I linger under
The warm stream that opens
Pours, steaming up my sinuses
As I try to dissolve myself
Into the current that I may swirl,
and become warmth.
The flowers sigh too, as they shed
Their layers while I
Peel myself out of a cocoon,
Desperate for some breath.
I choke on ice cold tea,
Eschewing coffee in hopes that Sleep
Might be a dear friend,
Even as air plays truant from my lungs
The tree outside my window shakes
in laughter, dislodging
his seedlings who mock
while I cough and hack and sneeze
my way through a new pack of Kleenex.
Fluffy clouds blanket skies while I die
— slow deaths under fluffy blankets
burning with a want
To rip out my soul and be done
With an October cold.