Migraine, Or, Hurry Up With The Locust Research Already

When ants of searing light march past my eyes
In crazed formations that it hurts to trace,
I know that feedback screeches I despise
Will fill my ears soon and I'll feel my face
Is far too small as is my viselike skull
Which someone cranked too tightly round my head.
The pain comes slowly; at first just a dull
Throb. Soon, though, I'll just want to go play dead,
Lie down in darkness, holding very still
And hoping that the harpies find me not.
Of course I'm caught flat-footed, not one pill
Of Imitrex is in my house. It's hot
And stifling. My poor dog knows something's wrong
And curls up by my bed, suffers along.