Flu
Three cups of ginger-ale and I'm still ill.
I want fresh air but feel as if I would
Collapse before I reached the bedroom door,
My legs and arms as weak as they are now.
I cannot read, can only sit, sip, munch
On crackers, toast and rice, slurp applesauce.
Oliver Twist is read into my ear -
I've had enough of my own suffering.
Outside my window, college life begins
On the grounds of my new independence.
Backpacked figures tromp through whirling snow, un-
Conscious they're observed by feverish specters.
Not valuing their freedom, unaware
Of ruined plans, confinement, chicken soup.
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