Two Weeks

Last night, I noticed the spots.
round and red, they appeared on my chest
"Oh my G-d, your back, its bad" said my friend
Thinking back to two weeks, please don't let it be

100.3 F, as a matter of fact pointed out Ol' Therma
No, they aren't even itchy, they don't itch!
There no way, I've had them before
It can't be allowed-- I'm older now          right?

Two weeks ago--
two weeks though.

Trudging through the rain holding bags,
We held ourselves together with simple frowns.
My sister had the red dots, but we walked--still
with disbelief at the dots.

The bags held her bedding and clothes
For the others had asked timidly,
that she move out of her room to another- alone
so her leporous state would not spread

I helped and fed her but nothing prepared
for those two weeks and half later

My fingers search my body
there are bumps on my scalp, ears, and neck
One throbs particularly large behind my ear
these dots, they don't care.

Snooping around my body
Wreaking pain, with every step
Is that a hornet on my tonsil?
Nope, just another one of the dots.

They blister in form with pus
Only withstanding soft cotton and calamine
Unimaginable pain that forces tears
And the friends say "I must stay away, I can't get it".

"I know exactly how you feel" says
my sister- my only redeeming soldier.
She hugs me close "Don't worry, we'll start a
support group for adults with chicken pox after you heal."

Then we laugh for a while
at the absurdity of the happening
adults getting a childrens' disease
Somehow though, it's very hilarious

How funny, that life, I guess
has its' ways of making crap into comedy
The two sisters who both got the pox
within two weeks of eachother- as in solidarity to each other.

The Unnecessary Bark

Settle muscles deeper within the crevices of the sheets.

If God won't let me fall asleep, fine. 
I won't sleep.
I'll just day dream for a bit.

White lines go back and forth to create a pattern of whicker baskets 
curling around peas vining up and down
The wirey mixtures create a canopy,
around a coned cape of fabric.

Inside the little fort there is a pair of jeans 
with bluer flecks among the wash.

The pocket is shining and beating. 
What is in the pocket?

Gaze shift sharply vertical to see 
through the frayed pocket the light 
that emanates is deeply saturated 
with a rich marbley brown.
Outter edges of the rays are golden 
but the inner stay light and white.

Somehow the marbley brown conveys … a message.

Through the soft webs that break and part
like fresh melted mozzarella
Comes out a stream of mindful ism that starts off
small and grows as you tear through
I pull off the excess white webbery from my fingers.
The letters are clear In the air to read now: 

The blanket fort and whicker patterns.
The Amber marbley unexplained brown.
The light that emanates from the jean square. 
Was it dreamt? Was it real? Was it even important?

Inhale, just soak up

the ocean air and leave out the salt. 
Drink up the smoothie, leave the ice.
Ignore the brain freezes, the sun burns, the unnecessary bark.

I swear, you will be happier once you realize that all which you gain is under your control. The frosting is all you can taste. The best part of the muffin. The good night text. The end of a good book. When the Advil kicks in. When the rain stops falling. The record of sprints on that day. The morning latte.  The moment when you finally fall asleep.