Sick in C
In November I grew six inches,
bundled in wool and polyester.
I hear Phillip Glass tapping at my windowpane with his endless treads of piano verse. He plays C Major like a tyrant.
My spine is bruised from cultivating a ditch within my mattress.
As I sit up, E Minor plays a melody down my vertebras.
An array of wonderments outside that window: from behind the frost, the city’s light glares against its glow, and the clouds shield the moon from interfering.
I open the windowpane to cool my breath.
I draw my finger across the glass, making words from condensation.
In the rain, the city loses its glow.
And the clouds overhead
encompass the buildings.
In the wind, I reminisce about my home in the outskirts of the District.
Where home is just a licked stamp away, I write to my mother.
I stand in front of the postal office and unleash my news to Virginia.
In an illness, greater than my runny nose, I retreat to my sleeping arrangement of blankets and pillows.
Sometimes I sit here… waiting, waiting.
Waiting for eternity to pass its course.
And I realize that sometimes sleep is just ready for you.