Sea Sick
I stand (almost)
One hundred ten pounds
Soaking wet.
Round up numbers
(In the same manner cobras unfold their hood;
How Monarchs, unroyal to a fault,
Bear their false eyes like liver spots)
And reject medical doctors' idiosyncratic philosophies
Repeating: the body, it is ninety percent water,
Repeating: that isn't a credible conclusion--
"No, I'm mostly just ink. Honest."
A phone rings
Echoing in a hollow office.
A pen scratches
And I think "mediocrities."
Walls rush towards my ant-self:
I choke on the pills.
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