Somewhere between
Today and last Tuesday,
I’ve lost my voice.
Thought I had it, but
I must have forgotten,
Misplaced how it sounds.
And now all that I write . . .
. . . Is so fucking trite.
Writer’s bronchitis,
That’s what I’ve got.
Coughing up snot covered,
Chest heaving, mucous glazed words.
Pieces from jigsaws,
Mish-mashed in wrong boxes.
I’m wastelanding forests of paper,
With acid rain showers of blooded ink.
Or maybe it’s worse,
Neural pathways shutting down.
Tomorrow I won’t even write nonsense.
It must be viral occlusion.
So please stay away,
At least until the fever is gone,
I’d hate for anyone else to suffer.
© Sam McKeon 2015
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