at the drugstore.

it seems that Death can be bought —
brown bottles with pretty pink caplets —
served by fat nurses with turkey necks 
and faces that look like
melting birthday cake —
and there I sat, day after day 
self-diagnosing new symptoms but 
always returning knowing that there
was only one
my prognosis is unknown
but it stays with me, always —
my heart hurts
and the pain burns 
and while I avoid you calling, in place
of hallucinations of delightful pasts 
I think I know, somewhere 
that these pretty pink caplets
won’t bring you back.

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