Fever

I feel too weak to move, I tell her

As I give back the thermometer

I am burning, burning, burning

For I am too hot for comfort and yet too cold for winter

And yet the haze, I see it before it sees me

Through slightly closed eyes, one hand to my head

I am tired I tell her. 

I am sick.

Yet

She is a mean mean woman, mumbling words that I can barely hear

Both heaven and hell, mentioned in the same breath

The devil? My angel? Something about a something

Yet this blanket feels soft, this pillow heavy

And I am fading quite slowly within this cocoon of comfort 

Burning pure yet, cleanliness is an issue?

Kleenex boxes

Food wrappers, broken candy bars

My chicken soup left untouched

I have no desire to eat and yet I crave something to match

This heat emanating from my body

Give me ice-cream, I ask

Or a sugary drink, maybe chocolate

A cool glance is met with delirious eyes

Something tasty, I say

I am not that picky

I hear a chuckle

Then a response:

           

            By George, your temperature is 170 degrees!  You must really be sick.

I am busted.  Time for school.