Friday 13

I woke up
with a raging head cold.

Both cats
vomited their breakfast.

Himself
had terrible leg pains.

I hauled him off to the doctor.
By then, I was so dosed up
I managed not to sneeze
all over the waiting-room.

We both forgot to report
the shoulder pain he’s also had
for days, unresponsive
to anything we’ve tried so far.

But anyway, the doc prescribed
new medication, as a trial,
for the agonised nerves in his legs:
a quarter the usual dose
(i.e. half a tablet) to start,
at night. Come back in a week
and we’ll see if we up it.

At bedtime I opened the box.
Uh-oh, capsules. Instruction
on box: take half; on
manufacturer’s leaflet: do not
cut open the capsule
and use just the contents. So —
no medication for him this night.

We watched TV, a show I like.
He pronounced it corny.

I had a poem to write,
working in my head; stayed up
to get it written. He
interrupted, repeatedly, to insist
I ought to be in bed. I at length
erupted. (I wonder,
can the neighbours
hear me screech?)

We didn’t get much sleep.

I‘d like to be able to blame
Friday 13.

April PAD Challenge #13: Unlucky

Also submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #97