By Beth Parker
nervous gut, plus scratchy throat
brought on by furnace heat and
all adds up to feeling crappy enough
to suspect the dread contagion,
which fear only tightens the vise-grip
on shoulders and neck.
Do I feel hot to you?
The thermometer says 107°.
That can’t be right.
But I am warm.
Possibly that just means
I’m alive. May as well seize the day,
says the dog, look here, this clump of grass
has recently been visited by another dog.
Life is a glorious pile of rot.
Let’s roll in it.
Beth Parker is a painter, landscaper, and occasional poet, when there’s time in between paintings. She lives in Chilmark.
Poets with a connection to Martha’s Vineyard are encouraged to submit poems to Laura Roosevelt at email@example.com.