ACHOO - Oh No!

This has been my current experience, and I don't like it!

A Poem about the Common Cold.

Achoo… Oh No

From the first sneeze,
the anticipation builds,
a tiny thunderclap behind the ribs,
a warning shot fired from the sinuses.

It starts as a whisper:
Is my throat scratchy… or am I imagining things?
I pretend I’m hydrated.
I pretend I’m fine.
The cold does not care.

Then comes the drip.
The slow, traitorous faucet of the face.
My nose becomes a full-time job
with no lunch break.

Every breath sounds suspicious.
Every swallow feels like broken glass
wrapped in sandpaper
and dipped in lemon juice for fun.

My head becomes
a balloon filled with wet cement.
Heavy.
Pressurized.
Stupid.

Why is something so small
so committed
to ruining my entire week?

I shuffle around
wrapped in blankets like a burrito of regret,
sniffing defiantly,
coughing dramatically,
absolutely convinced
this is how legends die.

And the sneezes;
violent, unpredictable, theatrical.
Full-body exorcisms
that leave me confused, dizzy,
and somehow offended.

I don’t have the flu.
I don’t have anything serious.
Just a cold.
Just a miserable, mocking,
low-budget villain of an illness.

No cure.
Even less dignity.
Only tissues piling up
like tiny white flags of surrender.

From that first sneeze,
the anticipation builds…
and I always forget
how stupid
a cold can be.

Wesley Henry