My tongue is a woolen mitt
the ones you see abandoned
on the wet street
run over and over
by buses.
My head is a soggy cave
my only ambition
to find the nomadic cool patch
on the bedsheets.
Having a cold
makes me question
whether there is a God
not because it’s merciless
quite the opposite
if God is the playwright
why conjure up such an undramatic bug
that does little
but render
your cast
mundane.
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