For Fred

by Rosa Campell

I hate poems about writing poems but all I’ve done today
is eat sugarsnap pea after sugarsnap pea and think
about the word “elegiac” a lot. I like it because it sits
heavy at the back of your throat when you’re done with it,
resting on your adenoids (is that what they’re called?)
like cough syrup. 

                   The cough syrup simile sits a bit heavy too, but it’s there because you’re sick, strung out on exercise
that you didn’t want to do in the first place (although I think
your adenoids are okay). 

                                                   I hope it’s reassuring
that bodily ruin as a result of the pursuit of the perfect body
is really a very postmodernist way to be ill,
and that even though you haven’t finished Infinite Jest yet
I’m pretty sure Foster Wallace would be proud.