Clogged
December 1st, 2020
Starring: The Poet (60+)
A prewar studio apartment. Not renovated, cramped. The Poet blows their nose (trumpet-like) into a tissue, then adds it next to a small mountain of crumpled tissues next to them on the sofa:
It’s that time. It comes every year, like the frost.
It’s not illness, thank god. But it’s not healthy.
Hm. What do I call it?
...
The Poet salutes:
General Stuffiness.
But deep. Densely packed.
Not just my nose. Jaw, vertebrae, carpals, tarsals. Tissues saturated, marrow dense. Everything just feels clogged.
It’s the season, sure. But it’s more than that. Buildup. 11 months of life rooting around inside. It’s uncomfy. Tiring. I feel full without eating. The skies get greyer, the days shorter. The pressure builds until it can’t. It has to go somewhere, so it goes. Into Kleenexes, onto shirtsleeves, through Neti pots and down shower drains. A dripping faucet of my year pours out, bit by bitty bitty bit bit.
And when the calendar flips, I’m empty. Ready to fill up again.
…
I’m not a doctor.
I’m just a poet.
This is how I see it.