I've been sick with a cold for a week. I hate being sick. I don't know how to handle being sick. I try to do my normal life, but being sick won't let me. Even after I spent this weekend mostly in bed, taking cough syrup and throat lozenges and Advil, and eating tons of soup, I'm still sick. And work beckons me tomorrow. Needless to say, I haven't done one iota of creative activity during this time.
Here's a poem from the distant past after a happy (and well) time at the opera. Oh, how I love the opera!
At the Opera
The grand salon was ablaze in hues of crimson
enveloping the walls, the settees.
Even the floors, even the drapery,
even the hoop-skirted gowns
were on fire in shades of red.
I looked in awe of this fantastic bordello scene
anxious for more
and was not disappointed.
Writhing down the staircase like snakes,
rattling their teeth,
kicking up their tails
came the black cloaked sirens.
They disrobed revealing legs and arms
and bodies encased in fishnet.
Their long red fingernails
beckoned the divas
and their twirling mates dressed
in gleaming ebony patent
and satin and crisp white linen.
The sirens teased,
while the divas
bellowing their glee, pulsated their throats.
Well, what do you know?
Those girls sure can sing.