The Cold

A prophet’s never known

Among her own –

Especially by one she’s wed to.

He’s abed.

He’s got a cold.

She’s got hold of techniques potent:

Pressure on those points oblique,

Baths and steam,

And as I speak,

Gone phlegmy pangs

And reams of snot

From sinuses and nose and throat.

Alas,

Alack,

He’s stuck

On sofa prone,

He and his cold,

Alone.

 

Words in the air

Don’t reach his ear

Or mind, and certainly not intellect.

He doesn’t want neglect

But can’t accept

The profit of the prophet.

So he coughs and sputters,

Spews and suffers.

She, not known

Among her own

No matter how ‘spot on’ the common

Sense

 

The Cold 11.15.2016

A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Love Relationships II;

Arlene Corwin

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