The Last Solvent

The cough lives in my chest like a tenant

who refuses to pay the rent or leave.

I’m drying out. My mouth is a desert

at the end of a very long, very hot day.

I huff a bit of fog onto the plastic lens,

rubbing it with the hem of a frayed shirt.

The saliva leaves a cloudy, jagged trail

before the friction clears the view.

It’s the only thing I have left to give

to make the world look sharp again.