A kind of flu. A poem by Jorge Leiva

I sit and listen to Mile Davis
thinking about how much I don’t miss the gym.
Wondering when
will they change their DJ.

Browsing the cloud.
I have a voucher.
I try to decide between Hemingway
and a food processor.

You can hardly chop an onion
With “The old man and the sea.”
You can hardly enjoy reading
an instructions manual.

On March the twelfth
I shook someone’s hand.
I can still feel its softness.

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