The Script

I dropped a pill on the floor. I found a speck of dust on it. Brushing it off. I take my meds on time. Mostly on time, Sometimes not. The way a train is not always on time. Sometimes, a train just blows past. Monday. I ran out of meds last Monday. Now it is Friday. I wish I had simply filled the script. But instead, it is ripped. Tearing through the trash. I shouldn’t have been so rash. I shouldn’t have skipped that refill. I wish I had all my pills. Sunday. Ignoring all the calls. Muddy footprints in the halls. As if someone came in from outside. But it’s just me who cried. He hands me my meds. On Sunday at 11:43 pm.