influenza  (from the mid-18th century Italian tongue)

how would the weary salesman on the road

have written his poetry

or the inner hatband stitcher, hers?

or the past's young love,.. her black & white oxfords sliding

backward through the slow ones slicker than Hayworth?

how would the leather-skinned cobbler have written

his poetry, or his wife, hers–– or those who've dreamed

at their shuttle looms and withheld only to dream again?

what are the consequences of these questions at the end of my day?

better to simply sneak a peek at life's confections, standing naked,

that is, save for my socks.