There is a
feverish swell
of warm pain
suffused with
lots of mucus.

I grab a book
of poems
and read this
verbal twist,
longing for those
words
to break the thick mist.

But the poetry
does not relieve me.
I am so sleepy.
My nose is dripping.
My throat is scratching,
and I am not catching
any sleep.

I fumble for
any thoughts that
came before
this nasally
flemmy storm.

The words will not come.
My mind fog
becomes a hot
brick wall
that blocks
all deep thoughts.

I can only cough
then shift
and hope
this ****
finally passes
after a full day’s slumber.