by Philip Kitcher

In sooth, I know not why I am so sick,
It wearies me; you say it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
In truth I know not. I have kept the span
(Required by protocol and common sense)
From other mortals. Yet all day I lie
Upon my fever’d couch. My racking cough
Plunders the bounty of the tissue box.