Man 'FluIt must have been consumption or the like;
That persistent cough,
Fruity, moist, productive,
The kind that has you
Clearing your own throat or
Reflexively looking for another seat.

She didn’t look tubercular,
Indeed, lethargic, settled, corpuscular,
No romantic Mimi this;
Bella in hand,
Without poignancy or pathos.

In her weakened state
She’d forgotten to buy
Tissues at WH Smith,
And clearly couldn’t contemplate
The shame
Of using her sweatshirt sleeve
To apprehend the viral fountain
That generously showered the carriage.
In any case, she’d reserved her cuff
For remnants
Of her Kentucky Fried Chicken,
And fries (large) with double ketchup

I feel a tickle in my tubes,
And a tinge of something tonsillar,
As I leave the train
And head back to my garret,
For a sure and certain
Dramatic decline

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