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.