Pulpy orange fruit drink

in michael leunig’s prayer to the common cold he
gives it thanks for being laid low–
i do not give thanks to the influenza virus.

there is a vamp under my words,
an endless patter while i deliver exposition–
i have to find the right combination to give the orchestra,
and then i’ll burst into song.

i dreamed i climbed up a steep hill
from the beach to the mountains,
and on the hill were gigantic sculptures of hands–
cupping sand, which had blown all the way upwards.

i’m delivered a glass of pulpy orange fruit drink
it is the colour of traffic cones.
i drink it and it tastes like nickelodeon,
which is kind of like saying i’m eight years old with chickenpox
my mother wheeling the television into my bedroom.

mary tells me that knitting is just a series of interlocking loops,
if you can keep that in your mind, it gets easier,
and i secretly wonder how i can possibly keep all these stitches in my head, when it’s already full of pulp and circumstance and
oversized hands.

i’ve messed up all my tenses–
which is fine, given that i still haven’t found my lead-in line
and my tie’s untied, i’m still stepping into my trousers,
my belt clinking and useless around my knees–

oh, this costume!
there’s sand all up in the grooves of my life-lines,
and i’m holding out hope
that one day a palm-reader or a manicurist can tell me
the exact ending of my tale.