Fever playing jump rope in my mind.
I'd lie in bed, skull hammering.
Blankets off, then on, then off, then on.
The old maple desk waits.
Notebooks stacked up, snickering.
To-do list growing larger.
And I know perfectionists don't rest.
I start dictating to my secretary.
Get rid of all those fucking commas.
There's too many em dashes.
Damn it, I'm a professional writer.
She jumps, claws flashing,
chasing pretend friends under the dresser.
Wait a second. Bukowski, my cat,
not my secretary.
Of course I don't have a secretary.
And if I did, I wouldn't be lucky
to have her in bed with me.
I hear a faint knock on the back door.
I can't be sure if it's real
or part of my febrile madness.
I get up, stagger through the hallway,
stumbling on one of the other cats
by the kitchen door.
Sweat stings my eyes.
Cussing like a drunk poet.
Although I've been sober for three years.
Open the door.
It's the landlord.
I grab him the rent money.
Thank him.
Tell him I probably have COVID.
He wouldn't want to be around me in this diseased state.
Just then, Shadow runs out the back door.
I push past him, start jogging after her.
Her tail flicks.
She's looking at squirrels, sparrows.
I finally catch her, panting, shaking.
I sit at my desk.
The computer hums to life.
I start typing.
The page seems patient.
I pound it out anyway.
Lines bleed into nonsense.
I hit delete.
Words wobble, stumble, fall.
Rise again.
I swallow vitamins like bullets:
echinacea, ginseng, some root
a half-deranged friend swore would work.
I don't know if they're senile
or if I'm chasing miracles.
I sip lukewarm coffee.
It tastes like tepid bathwater.
I wipe sweat from my forehead.
My hands shake across the keys.
But the words come anyway.
I write fever into the page.
Self-pity, frustration, absurdity, humor.
Something.
I glance at the page.
It's a mess.
Jagged. Alive. Ragged characters.
My fucking body aches.
I rewrite a line, cross it out, circle it again.
The perfectionist can't rest.
The pages must be complete.
I pray somehow, someway,
I'm able to make sense of this poem.
I cough, choke.
Try to remember the last time I felt well.
The cats doze in the late afternoon sun.
Apathetic.
I reach for the vitamin C again.
My lungs burn.
My head pounds.
The fever stalks me like a toxic lover.
And still I sit here, in this chair,
at this maple desk.
Each word a tiny battle.
Each line a victory over the scrambled, aching brain.
The page is complete.
The poem's done.
It's twisted and alive.
The perfectionist heads back to bed.
I'd lie in bed, skull hammering.
Blankets off, then on, then off, then on.
The old maple desk waits.
Notebooks stacked up, snickering.
To-do list growing larger.
And I know perfectionists don't rest.
I start dictating to my secretary.
Get rid of all those fucking commas.
There's too many em dashes.
Damn it, I'm a professional writer.
She jumps, claws flashing,
chasing pretend friends under the dresser.
Wait a second. Bukowski, my cat,
not my secretary.
Of course I don't have a secretary.
And if I did, I wouldn't be lucky
to have her in bed with me.
I hear a faint knock on the back door.
I can't be sure if it's real
or part of my febrile madness.
I get up, stagger through the hallway,
stumbling on one of the other cats
by the kitchen door.
Sweat stings my eyes.
Cussing like a drunk poet.
Although I've been sober for three years.
Open the door.
It's the landlord.
I grab him the rent money.
Thank him.
Tell him I probably have COVID.
He wouldn't want to be around me in this diseased state.
Just then, Shadow runs out the back door.
I push past him, start jogging after her.
Her tail flicks.
She's looking at squirrels, sparrows.
I finally catch her, panting, shaking.
I sit at my desk.
The computer hums to life.
I start typing.
The page seems patient.
I pound it out anyway.
Lines bleed into nonsense.
I hit delete.
Words wobble, stumble, fall.
Rise again.
I swallow vitamins like bullets:
echinacea, ginseng, some root
a half-deranged friend swore would work.
I don't know if they're senile
or if I'm chasing miracles.
I sip lukewarm coffee.
It tastes like tepid bathwater.
I wipe sweat from my forehead.
My hands shake across the keys.
But the words come anyway.
I write fever into the page.
Self-pity, frustration, absurdity, humor.
Something.
I glance at the page.
It's a mess.
Jagged. Alive. Ragged characters.
My fucking body aches.
I rewrite a line, cross it out, circle it again.
The perfectionist can't rest.
The pages must be complete.
I pray somehow, someway,
I'm able to make sense of this poem.
I cough, choke.
Try to remember the last time I felt well.
The cats doze in the late afternoon sun.
Apathetic.
I reach for the vitamin C again.
My lungs burn.
My head pounds.
The fever stalks me like a toxic lover.
And still I sit here, in this chair,
at this maple desk.
Each word a tiny battle.
Each line a victory over the scrambled, aching brain.
The page is complete.
The poem's done.
It's twisted and alive.
The perfectionist heads back to bed.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 31st, 2026 07:26
- Comment from author about the poem: I recently posted a new long-form poetry reading featuring a sneak peek from my upcoming book, Searching for Nod. Watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4sfxAFCf-I 📖 You can also find all my books on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Thomas-W.-Case/author/B0CL2RKDGX — Thomas W. Case
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments1
Rituals of a day interrupted by distractions that come and go until the task is complete and the bed awaits. I love your poems Thomas they take the common the mundane and the suffering of life and turn it into poetry
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