Sick Poetry: Mug

It’s difficult to be sick

when you only have three mugs.

One cup of tea

and two of chicken broth

and now I have to do dishes.

Or maybe I should just

get more mugs.

Sick Poetry: Bolshevik

“Why allow my political opponents to speak against me,”

thought Stalin,

“When I could just have them killed?”

So he did.

No one could say they disagreed with the government

For more than a few days, anyway.

A rival leader, Trotsky, was shot.

He was also attacked

with an ice pick.

An ice pick in the ear.

Dude, Trotsky.

I know that feel, bro.

Poem: Potions

Everything on the side

of the Nyquil bottle

and more

plus I don’t feel rested when I wake up.

Apparently I’m unable to write prose

when I’m sick

or maybe it’s a symptom.

I’d like to see Nyquil make a potion

that prevents poetry.

Poem: Sick Day

Sore throat, stuffy nose, tired.

Warm tea, movies, comfy couch.

Sick day, snuggle day.