It seems so distant

When he jogged the woodland trails

Before getting sick.

His lungs are now weak;

Coughing has exhausted them

And his head still spins

And every breath hides

A rumble deep within,

And he fears breathing

Which will send his head

Spinning round and round the room.

He sits down quickly;

He doesn’t get up

Let alone go for a jog.

The outdoors can wait.