Respirar

Tonight I filled
a whole volume
with a clutch
of coughing,
which my oldest
book of illustrated
ailments said
was surely
the prologue
to an archive
of wind-related
afflictions—
There being
nothing left
to do but wait
and count,
I slipped
off my shoes,
rested in
an armchair
and agreed
to be fed a thick
slice of toast,
sprinkled with
brown sugar.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Anarchist's Dream.

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