Fever and dream

(this week we imitate Jack Gilbert, a free verse writer.)

My head feels like a jet engine.
I spit the ground out onto the ground.
I miss when I used to feel safe
when I got sick. My cat would lie on my stomach.
He ran away when I was fifteen. Now I have nothing
but codeine and uncomfortable chairs.
No oases in sight, although
that may just be my vision going.
My friends are underwater and I desiccate.
My lungs feel like spilled cement. I start
wishing I could cough them up so
something would change. Think of asking the cat
to look for red spots in the dust. For now it's
just strings of spit, hanging like spiders
dangling from my mouth. This
is the company I keep. When I cough so hard
that my sternum grazes the upper bones
of my back, the spiders recoil.
My cat runs away to hide. Sometimes
he doesn't come back. I would look for him but
my head is spinning too fast, kicking up dust,
and I can't see.