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Housesitter's Fever

This poem appeared in the June, 1996 issue of M.E.N. Magazine

You said to make myself at home. But after two days of sweats and shakes I have no idea what time it is it’s all I can do not to barf on the waterbed. With nature calling from both ends, I will myself to stagger down the swaying hall, only to black out on the pot and come to in a fetal chill on the floor, a strange room hovering above me, and inexplicable sweetness filling my nostrils.

Oblivious to such ills, Bobo, your blue-ribbon hamster, has taken to the treadmill to chase his proverbial tail. At least it keeps him in shape.

Still too weak to struggle to my feet, I tell myself I’m getting better, even if I have lost a step. I’d write myself a get-well card if I had an iota of inspiration. Then up pops this bit of graffiti I saw last week, felt-tipped to the mirror over a men’s room urinal: The weather’s here&emdash;wish you were beautiful.

Please come back.

Frederic Sibley

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