Instant soup, a cup or two, and now the long,
slow, softly glowing embers of an adamantine
headache that doesn't make me ill, but destroys
my will, only the reptilian core in the mammal
brain remains operative, survival, fight & flee
Now called up to attend a Minister's meeting,
backache is manifesting while trying to learn
on Arabic or read Agatha Christie didn't work
beyond half-hearted attempts - during lunch
I wandered down to the shops & found a pair
Of divine flip-flops, rose-pattern on top - yet
my joy is as vague as an almost dying flame;
I'm going to stop drinking instant soup just to
become me again without ears swelling and
eyes unfocused: I had better leave before it
Becomes too difficult to drive home safely…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem