When I was eight
I found a treasure
Hidden in a nook.
(God bless the faithful
Women who told me
To go look.)
How could a child
Judge value or
Barter to buy gold?
The Merchant schooled me
To Himself and
Gave me all the trove.
Stomach Bug came calling in the dark of night;
That’s his favorite hour and he hits it just right.
Tossed awake by rancid dreams of the gumbo she had eaten,
She squinted at the clock – just 11:57.
So commenced a swooning night on a neon fair ride,
Gumbo burnt and gumbo greasy, gumbo served on every side.
In delirium it’s so important to know how he got in,
Buggy handle? Public bathroom? Slithered in the dryer vent?
Finally darkness turns to blueness; day, against all odds, has dawned.
Hope renewed, our patient tries to tell her body it is wrong.
“You aren’t really sick, get on up and get to work!”
Stomach Bug checks his schedule, settles in with a smirk.
On the couch, that staunch companion of many diseases,
Our patient sinks and soars. And sweats. And freezes.
All these could be endured except for one tiny detail:
Her husband’s Saturday project list must not fail!
Doors slam, drills whir, sparking sockets are changed,
Racks removed, studs knocked for, and the junk drawer rearranged.
A quilt over the head doesn’t silence progress’s racket,
Stomach Bug considers giving up and calling a taxi.
But he doesn’t.