The thought of making pleasant conversation with
my future in-laws at Easter dinner in two hours
is a headache floating outside my skull. I watch it
through two Tylenols like single-pane glass.
Pull up a humanesque smile for the teenage gingerboy
who takes my order, but my voice reveals
me as sleep-deprived and antisocial. He hands me
my peppermint tea and I sit
shivering and watery-eyed
like an ugly small dog, sniffing
up steam and finding it both refreshing
If I ever finish this tea, I plan
to put aside my usual paranoia about hearing
loss and buy a pair of dollar store ear buds so my watch
can finally turn back into an iPod. I plan
to trod across my high-frequency range like
heavy black boots over virgin meadow grass.
I plan to spoil myself like a kid
at Grandma's house, give in to each desire
as it surfaces to try to make the day
soft and edible for a sore stomach.