Winterbourne Alive With Fever

for Inmaculada Cara Martin

This invalid's taken a powder;

the condemned line up in order.

Viruses, fall out!

Bacilli, prepare to die!

Winter consumes us all

down to the loneliest spark

pulsating through microbial flesh.

The leaky tap drips drabs of life

while I stand before the mirror,

gushing eye phlegm."It's cold out!"

I honk at the spout. "Cold! Cold! Cold!"

A misted face regards me, so weathered.
Oh, snot and blubber. I'm better!