an empty coffee mug, a stubbed-out smoke.
your cough is minimal, your muscles
wallpaper-thin and huddled
underneath a blanket.
take two panadols and ask for sleep.
read and watch and drink and hope for
tuesday to be as far away as possible.
bach and bartok and that thrash metal lineup
can all go to hell. that che guevara book
lies closed, a mere seventy-six pages in
and you'd like to see it burnt toast.
revolutions were never conducted from bed.
ideologies were formed out in the pampas,
the dealing to the sick, the commotion
and gunsmoke you lack, your head
a battleground already.
chin up, young man.
there's always tomorrow.