Pharmacy

10261-Pills

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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