Shakespeare’s Sickbed

Miserable and trying to find a Zen moment
of acceptance in another sick day
at the end of winter.

My throat and ear rage with full colonies of bacteria,
fighting in the hot stream of my blood,
when I spy Shakespeare’s sideways glance
cajoling me into my words,
away from the battlefields
of this miniature war
and suffering.

His eyes follow me from his place
in the collage on the wall
near gardens, bright visions of ancient cities,
and simple hellos.

My friend does not judge,
but offers thanksgiving and advice
to read and write in the quiet of the morning
while the body designs exits
and dares to disturb the universe.

Spirits of other poets circle my bed now
smiling as I await redemption
in these lines.

For who is to know
what inspiration came to Shakespeare
in his simple longing
and in his lonely sickbed?