A hacking cough had me up in the wee hours which I whiled for some writing, before dropping off again. Not sure it qualifies as poetry. But I have tried. Meanwhile, I am resting and binge watching Netflix like any sensible sick person in the Western World. What has preoccupied me from the fastness of my bedroom is the importance of comfort and how it ought never be taken for granted. Today, the poetry practice is a kind of list paean. It may not be a cure for the common cold, but it seems to be working for me. Along with naps.
To cosset the common cold
one bound notebook,
cream pages with grey lines
begging to be stroked by a pen's nib
to course and flow with jet ink
one very large cup
(rather like a small bowl)
with circumferance wide enough
to cool hot tea to an ideal
unfevered temperature. Yes to the
Earl Grey with a touch of lavender.
Yes, a slice of lemon and, also,
yes to some sugar. Please.
I know! I know! It's bad for me.
Just like that stack of undemanding reads,
books that are not necessarily
literature, schlocky comfort reads,
not too sad or over-exciting,
with a happy-ish ending or a
satisfying solution dished out
with a dollop of creme anglaise.
Also, the hot water bottle wrapped
in its handknit wooly jumper,
the balmy brand of tissues just to hand.
And the accompanying waste barrel.
The living, breathing,
yawning, farting, yowling,
meowing. snuffling, gently snoring,
dreaming dogs and drowsy cats
who settle in with me to binge watch
old TV shows from my youth,
or the monochrome world
of silver screen 30s and 40s movies
all in the comfort of my darkened room
It's like taking honey with my nostrums
and having my dinner served on a tray -
nothing at all like any old school day.
Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved.