I am too sick to write a blog, I am a party hangout
for some amoeba who moved in and promptly called his gang out.
They’re having quite a time in there, yet keep wanting to leave.
Each time I have to see them out, I stumble and I weave.
My stomach feels like shattered glass, my head is slightly pounding.
I think they’re doing Zumba—flip-flopping and rebounding
against my corridors of gut. I wish that they would stop.
I can’t make it to the clinic to consult a microbe cop.
Is it a parasite or fluke ( contracted from my cat?)
When she strokes and kisses them, what cat owner thinks of that?
For now, I’m resting in my bed with electrolytes and Flagyl.
I’ve cancelled my appointments, for I’m feeling sort of fragile.
The world will demonstrate without me, and friends go out to dine
while I hang out with tiny guests, miserable and supine.
I had this same bug a year ago, when I had to call off my 70th birthday celebration, much-planned for, because I was so miserable. So, these pesky amoebas seem to be maintaining a schedule. Unfortunately, I had a full day of activities planned today, as well—first of all a demonstration against Trump’s immigration policies, then a visit to my doctor, a visit to an ill friend, and dinner with another friend. All cancelled. Ironic that I’m too ill to go see my doctor. Here’s another little ode to amoebas I wrote during an earlier bout named “Once Upon a Lime in Mexico.”
Ragtag’s prompt today is fluke .