If I had a dollar for every pill,
I’d still be medication poor.
What does not kill me, makes
me stranger, dizzy as fizzy water.

There are demons on the soles
of my feet. The pain dances there.

Hard humps are dots under the skin,
as if the swallowed pills escaping
were stopped by the flesh wall.
I itch at the prickly soreness.

Rings of light, one to rule all
my seeing, flash as I rise. Fall.

My heel has a wily serpent’s tooth
in it, as I shift weight to the floor,
and wake in a space as unknown
as a rent-an-hour motel room.

Something wakes me at 2 a.m.,
something unknown. I am the cause.

The dream I exited my brain made
is more here than this night journey
to toilet and back, as I leave notes
I will not be able to read tomorrow.

My hand shakes. I remember you shaking
next to me, as if we weathered a quake.

The snow we loved to watch came late.
So what could I be thankful for?
The pills obliterate the pain.
The better therapy is love.

And now I glimpse garlands of red lights,
and remember it is Christmas day.