there in your hand is a bottle
of brand-name acetaminophen:
the super strength stuff
for your knees, I guess.

not even, not even looking at you,
or even your fingers clasped 'round
the little white container...
just the yellow arthritis label.

you're not an old man,
and I am even less aged,

all I can see right now
is a means to an end.

where's the vodka?
so fixated on the idea
that I could chase those pills
with a fifth or what have we,
just so that finally, I...

  my dear, if I ever say a mysterious goodbye, then please know that I am headed this way.

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