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.


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