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; Love Relationships II;
Arlene Corwin