Counting Pills
If dying was easy, I would have done it sooner
Would you believe
me if I told you
I wasn’t really
counting pills?
Would you believe
me if I said I wasn’t
ready to go?
The whiskey bottle
is empty, so too
the pill bottles.
The white, blue,
green and cream
are supposed
to make me happy.
Despite their efforts,
I remain in my black hole.
The pills slither down.
I slow down.
I feel the atria lurch
followed by the ventricles.
The rhythm falters,
draws to a close.
It doesn’t matter.
Black Coffee Review
August 2019
