Sick Sonnet

When you’re sick at night the outlook is bad.

You’ve made it all day with substandard breath

Because day relieved any thought you had

Of being too wretched, let alone death,

Simply by pouring in through the window,

Or seeping gently past curtain edges.

But now that it’s dark, with all night to go,

And you’re alone, a fact that for ages

You’ve known but not felt, or totally owned,

However much undeniably true,

And which, in good health, you never bemoaned,

Now closes in and weighs hard upon you.

It will be a spell before night wears off,

And not much to do until then but cough.