The Sickbed

My head is playing the flu symphony-

ring-ring, wheeze and throbble.

Three days now.

Plans and errands disappear into

the steady mist of Vicks- spraying effervescent

into the atmosphere.

I am a vision of the pale, Pre Raphaelite maiden

stretched solemnly on her death bed of

pink tissue roses, crumpled and used.

Staring heavenward, connecting dots

or is it a stray moth? Two Hail Mary’s for the

dust on the ceiling fan, three for corner cobwebs.

Ring-ring, wheeze and throbble.