I’m finding spitting to be one of the hardest parts. That and only seeing out of my right eye. I have my left eye taped shut because it will not close on its own.
I’m a constant namedropper. It’s not something I am proud of. As a matter of fact, there is very little that I am proud of in these days of hacking coughs and hacked emails.
I’m thinking about having fried eggs for dinner. I like dipping the bread in the orange-yellow yolk and how it soaks in for the long haul.
I’m tapering off the steroids from the Bell’s palsy. Time to take two tablets and eat a tuna fish sandwich. I am going through some mild withdrawal, which I don’t mind too terribly much.
Let’s stop all this hemming and hawing and get down to what is really going on. I don’t have a clue where this poem is heading and I prefer it that way when it is you I’m lying next to in the brittle darkness.
Oftentimes when I wake up in the hand-me-down morning, it is really the late afternoon. My routine begins again checking emails, taking allergy medicine, and drinking Coca-Cola. I’m nothing if not a creature of habit. This poem may morph into something or it may just sputter out like some empty and tired old lawnmower.
Today for the first time in a week, my left eye is not taped shut, and I do not feel like a Cyclops.
We take our health for granted until we feel it slipping out of our grasp. I need to learn to be more grateful for all the good things that I have.
I spend too much time waiting for the other shoe to drop instead of simply enjoying the blessings of everyday breath and everyday beauty.