Lethargy of leaden wings

I hadn’t had the ‘flu in ages, avoided all those awful places
fraught of gritty eyes and splitting heads, patrons ringed
in lethargy of leaden wings, deafened by the roaring chills
and still-life flushes, weakened in their clumsy trusses,
trodden on through breached defences, sore diseased
and barely breathing; now I can’t decline a cough or sneeze,
I’m on my knees and in the throes of drowning.

Sure, I sip my lemon tea with spoon of amber honey,
trying to decide which things to do, things I didn’t need
to think about before this day, praying for the strength
to ride these doldrums out, to see them to their squalid end.

Then lost again, the sequence fades and drifts in thinning strands
of random thought, my nose is dripping like a faucet to be stopped,
should I sit or stand or aught I turn a page or listen to my wife who says
to rest. Keep warm, its best you take a blanket dressed
across your knees, keep your fluid levels up and don’t despair.

And just where should I begin? I hate myself for being weak,
for taking medication, the loss of concentration, the bleakness
in my soul with tears that rends the joy I used to feel
when caring hands were placed with caring words
defending me. It’s not a place I long to be.
© I.D. Carswell