Too sick to write a poem About how awfully fucking sick You make me feel. Congratulations on being An astronaut cycling Lonely through Outer space I applaud the disciplined Manner in which you cower Under white sheets of paper, Or Space vapor From things as simple as Feelings, Or feet, Or tailgating, Or trampolines, Or tangerines, Or the 5th dimension, Or straying from the conventional, Or convection ovens, Or meat-filled muffins, Or big jet planes, Or pairs (not to be confused with pears) Or maybe I meant pears, Or twirling skirts, Or funny shirts, Or electric guitars, Or electric eels, Or remote controlled automobiles, Or lavender cream, Or the fat lady's scream, Or being a team, Or red, white, and green, Or The Fine Arts (which wouldn't be "fine" if someone thought they were dangerous) Or young lady farts, Or Chris Tucker, Or John Tucker, Or tuck and roll Or simple feelings like: "I care about what you do And how it effects me!"