from Arrows for when you feel good: Sixteen poems | purchase here
Forever is fast,
flees from me as I sit
in the blue leather chair that reclines,
with an IV in my arm and
pills dissolving in my gut.
Ann forgets to remove the tourniquet
at the proper time, and so something –
my arm, the needle, the tube, vibrates,
scares me shitless and causes a cold sweat,
a lightheaded dive into unconsciousness.
“Oops,” she says, snapping the tourniquet loose,
anchoring my brain to my body again.
Four years for a degree I don’t want,
a half-finished book, poems too private
and lewd, friends who have left or
are leaving, no job, another year’s
worth of rent (half a grand a month x10),
and no will to trade buckets of time for a dollar sign.
For now, I rest,
and wait for the loud beep that means
the IV bag is empty and I can leave.