Head Cold

--August 18, 1993

Edith used to write this way
propped up in her bed
on a stack of pillows
spilling her guts longhand
page after page falling to the floor
for some poor minion to pick up
and type out later
while she was in the garden
entertaining her impressive guests
or tending to her mangy lap dogs.
I'm imitating her style now
not out of any personal methodology,
but because I'm really too damn sick
to get out of bed.  I need
a servant to make me some 
coffee and while she's here it would 
be nice if she'd scratch my back
for a while then at least one part of me
would feel good because inside here
it just feels like a wad of cotton candy.
I hope it's just a cold and 
not the dreaded 4-corners deer mouse hantavirus
that has been killing young Navajo's in New Mexico
because my health insurance has lapsed
and right now
Dristan and Kleenex
is the only medication I can afford.