Sick is me plastered on the bed
Like some impressionist's work in phlegm.
It's me coughing till the ghost of the lunch I couldn't eat
returns to haunt me all the same.
It's weakness and frailty and fear of drowning,
Listening to the bubbles in my chest.
Better is more complicated,
Quieter and less dramatic;
the last antibiotic,
the first real walk.
The fear has not disappeared,
but it's farther away.
Better is cleaning the sheets,
It's me reclaiming a kitchen lost to neglect,
though Sick still haunts the ragged edges of my breathing.
and particularly today,
Better is eating cherries,
fresh and dark and sweet as victory,
And planning my next cup of tea.
And from this you can gather that my pneumonia is being beaten back, so I'll soon be on my RA meds again (calling the rheumy today). This is the first poem that has knocked on my door for a while, so I thought I'd share xxx