She meets my eye, yawning,
hair bright as a plate of lemons
and tells me to take a seat
with the others, pill-faced
and waiting like hungry children,
soothed by beady capsules
to heal us quicker than Christ.
A handful to settle her nervous tic
where her husband, wrapped at home
in a makeshift deathbed
gorges on daytime TV—
anaesthetized, sighing out
big words, serotonin—
his grey and mushroomed brain,
this man-sized baby, rattling bottles,
wailing for water and pills.
Is this for yourself, madam?
Rain blisters and pops on the door.
A name is tossed out like a sandwich-crust
as I wait my turn, eye the cool blink
of dark bottles, elixirs,
bored ladies in white
diamond-mining the shelves
for the perfect cure
to rock me to sleep at long blue last
on the night-train circling my skull.