Coarse staples and thumbtacks scratch my throat
I try to melt them with glasses of water
and lozenges of menthol and benzocaine.
Simply more drugs to distort my body's natural tendencies.
At least the bass drum in my head
is at the bottom of a decrescendo.
Hopefully it will stay there for a few more hours.
Once I have a pillow to deaden the sound
it can jam all it wants, it won't bother me.
Now the southpaw stranglehold that succumbs my pen
must swerve to avoid the collision my nostril has sent for it.
My impaired senses still notice her lingering in my shirt
and I breathe deeply. Those wildflowers can cure anything.