Two weeks ago I caught a simple cold
and carried it to Portland in my chest.
I didn’t think it much, but now I’m old
enough to feel a wreck and need more rest
than I arranged. Compounding as a cough,
it settled deep and durable in me.
It racked me and it threw my balance off;
it made me trip and sapped my energy.

I sacrificed a fortnight fighting phlegm,
endured a week of painful lower back,
concluded I won’t feel myself again,
or like my looks, or weather this attack,
until tomorrow, when I’ll wake and gauge
myself a little stronger than my age.