Summer Cold

A cold has built its nest
                        In the vacant strip of land
Between my neck and chest.

The doctors say, There is no way

            Of breaking it up, if built
By architects of the viral world.

Limited are the options for relief, they add:

            One, the natural course of Time,
And two, the lozenges

Made plump with balls of zinc. I employ

            Them both –
A combination, of Nature’s tread

As well as the medicine factory’s

                                    Grim offerings,
And play this game of waiting

Until the nest is displaced,

            With no more children to feed,

And the only motion forward is
            A new construction project
In someone else’s territory.