I feel like Emily Dickinson.
Every time I move my head, something buzzes
between my ears
as if flies are renting space in there and
disturbing the peace

My shoulders and neck are as stiff as wood.
I think that’s a side effect of the antibiotics
and not a permanent stain on my posture.
I am the Tin Man, squeaking in tongues.
Oil me. Oil me.

A gentle cough
A sniffly nose
A little bit of this. A little bit of that.

Grey skies are not about to clear up
so pardon me if I keep my happy face on hold.

When Emily Dickinson died, poetically speaking,
she heard a fly buzz.
Emily, I love you but please stop planting imaginary scenarios
into this hypochondriac’s head.

Buzz off, Emily.