Bust to Crust
if you look closely
you can see my
eye squeeze out
a solitary teardrop.
i’ve got chills with
this illness, a nausea
ad nauseum, the
forecast is bathroom.
saturday’s gloom
gives itself to doom
as i’ve not even the
change for an alka-
seltzer, nothing
with which to
purchase a spare
aspirin or advil, &
i’m so weak that i
couldn’t evacuate
my broken bed
if, let’s say, i had
to. what’s worse
than the weak
ness of illness
that renders
the woozy
immobile?
an urgent
need to
purge,
and no
way of
knowing
from which
end the ick
ity geyser’ll
first blow.
