Cold July (poem)

I can’t kick this cough
but that’s my usual fare.
I cycle through sickness
with the same drawn out tendencies
aligned with unrequited love:
hot, thick, consuming, spewing,
relentless, inescapable.

I have a cure for the common cold:
twists
in lunges, yoga
is what purifies me.
Well, it can certainly help.
Just as it helps

with unrequited love. Outside it is July
in Boston and people hurry through
punishing rain that has dominated
for the last thirty days – what is our crime
already? All I know is I am thirty
years old for as many days as it’s rained,
a real washout so far.

Where is the sun?
Where is the summer?
When will this cough be requited?