an ode to a stomach bug

I've grown increasingly ill
as the day has worn on.

Now it's midnight
and here I am,
shaking with fever,
and dizzy, not with delight.

This stomach bug stinks,
much like the bowl
which now cools
my warm forehead.

It's really quite unreal,
how ill that I feel.

I would say
I think I might die,
but death would be
a welcome detour --
and as stinky as
this bug seems to be
delight is not its nature.

The gist of this poem
-- at midnight from
the lavatory --
no, I'm not alright.
This stomach bug stinks.