Tuesday, May 13, 2003

"Take a bath, play some music",
the good doctor says.
No pills for me, only his righteous prescription for
a smug look, a snide comment
about mind over matter.
Do you mind do I matter?
Just give me the pills and I'll leave quietly.

It's his death I plot in the thin hours before dawn,
bleary-eyed and thirsty, writing worse poems
than yesterday.
"I asked nicely," I'll tell everyone at the funeral,
"But he left me no choice."