Once a move of pregnant desperation,
Now a meditation of nasal salvation.
As a tea smith prepares his favorite brew,
I, too, mix a potion that shall see me through.
Like the grand canyon, carved by the winds of time,
This solution will erode my sinuses of slime.
A staccato drip, with hopes of a steady stream,
So that I may breathe silently, through both nostrils, and dream.
I meet my gaze, through tears, saliva, and saline,
In the mirror ahead, with its Crest-speckled sheen.
And I nod, nod with mildly disgusted appreciation
For the opportunity to experience this sublime irrigation.
Rhinitis, sinusitis, with whichever ailment I am fraught,
At my side you’ll find my hero, my warrior, my Neti pot.
I would bow my head in thanks, if I could,
But my left nostril shall fill, well, perhaps if I stood…
No, no, that still isn’t good.
So, indeed! Two pillows tonight it shall be,
If not for the pot, I swear twould be three!