Paul J Penton – Songwriter

Thermometer- Daily Object Writing- Nov 7th

A prisoner of the bed , thousand pound sheets and blankets, suffocating , sweating, fever sending red hot pokers into my skin. The doctor visits, his little black bag opens its mouth and speaks the language of stethoscope and thermometer, he flickers the thin glass a couple of times in a jellied hand and then the cool glass sits under my tongue. I feel like a Gelf, impotent, unable to speak or act or anything. For what seems like a day it sits there, the red liquid making a steady gradient along the numbers. Withdrawn he looks at it against the light coming in from the square window above the bed and makes a hmmmmming sound. He suggests that a salve of Vicks Vapour rub and more sleep would be useful.

A cough shatters my rib cage- I am really really sick, this is no put-on to get out of school, this is torture. The sheets have become a swamp so they need changing. I sit wrapped in a blanket as they are relayed, sunken eyes taking it all in between earthquake shivers and volcanic coughing eruptions. She says she’ll make me some chicken soup, I sure couldn’t keep much else down I reckon. Eyelids are as heavy as the lids on a cart away Rubbish skip – when is that truck gonna come and take me away? I am aroused from my hypnotic deluge by the arrival of the chicken soup, I try to sit up, the pillow slipping against the wall while a lax hand grips the spoon and I taste that cloudy cocktail and mix it with a crunchy mixture of toast and butter… ah a bit of life at last….