They always sneak in the side door when I’m
not looking, pyogenic pointillist
muggers curling across my tongue, red-slime
bodies contorting, minuscule sadists
covered in sandpaper and broken glass
scraping over my larynx each time I
swallow. They wallow in delight, then pass
up the Eustachian. Oh, my right eye,
flexing radish, secretes sticky fluid.
Now I’m on Amoxicillin. I guess
it’s working, a morbid man-virus quid
pro quo: My constant gulping inflicts less
pain, and yet I’ve lost my voice. My crusty
rasp makes my writing students smile. Trust me.
Roger Armbrust
January 24, 2008
