|Oct/Nov 2009 Poetry|
I am not a doctor but maybe
I know a few doctors: one sticks an otoscope
in my ear and says You've got wax buildup; you can get
an over the counter for that. Another writes prescriptions.
When I get the prescriptions they're generics,
but they're supposed to be the same, so I twist
off the caps and take each one dry.
I tell myself to be happier when I almost get into a fender bender,
but brake in time.
Another doctor wants to know why I'm scared to go to sleep.
She wants to know what I can do to help myself.
I tell myself to be happier that my co pay is low enough
that I can still afford a latte after.
There are other doctors that aren't my doctors.
Some of them are good and some of them can't save
my sister and now she's in a box no bigger than a large
shoebox. The box is in the ground.
I can't see it from where I stand. Hopefully I'm not
on top of it; hopefully I'm standing in front of it,
like if she were above ground our feet would be touching.