Nothing. Not a thing, not a drip nor a skerrick of air
pipped through my tiny slot. Just puff and wheeze,
eyeballs fixed on the gurgling humidifier
belching menthol-flavored cubits of
breath into my room, into my tattered lungs,
serenading my struggle
in blue-fugue loneliness, everyone
elsewhere. Everyone having fun. How many
hours I spent this way as a child, I don’t know.
A thousand? More? I lived in a town of
tornadoes and blizzards, during the heyday
of the bomb. Sipping on air that ran out felt
like practice, my night watch, protection
from the feeling of ever having protection.