The cold

What so silent creeps with evil intent, without a whisper of its coming?
Tickles the throat and allows not the clearing a normal disturbance makes;
Cast not the eye on this villain, and perhaps destination will choose another
A skirmish in the sinus, the sleeping familiar warning of Nyquil nights to come.

Morning’s arrival has company: a Kleenex, a Kleenex, my dignity for a Kleenex!

What cold deed now seeks revenge on my throat and avoids all abating?

A hot ember residing with comfort sits, as if a servant
To inspect roughly anything that might attempt to pass.
A symphony in the making; coughing with notes of varying sounds from basso to falsetto,
Followed by a gentle wheeze that rests with insistent pride on every breath.

Like a one-hit oldie, there is no expectation of arrival,
You know the notes, the melody, and the harmony—and there it is:
A cold, your cold.

One would think that given the many rehearsals,
You could play through the misadventures:
Be d’Artagnan and duel all symptoms to rest.
Not.

I am six when I’m sick:
Ginger ale, Vaporub, and Campbell’s chicken soup (the musketeers)
Must follow until that morning when the corner arrives,
When my voice no longer sounds like it’s exiting through one nostril,
When blowing my nose doesn’t feel like it might blow an eye into my soup.

I used to read the thermometer without glasses;
A non sequitur, yes, but I have allowance.
I am seriously feeling sorry for my three-days-ago self.

Okay, so it wasn’t Iwo Jima, but it was a form of hand-to-hand combat with myself;
Fight, but do not slay; you might need those lungs later …