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The first thing I tried to stop from coming were the pills. I’d become unhinged, a broken double door thrashing at crooked lawyers that weren’t really there. When I took the little pink capsules, everything went white: the green shutters on my parent’s Tudor home, the blue carpet and my speckled cat. The so-called attorneys mixed in with the television, a blinding equilibrium of people and things. That night I slept the sleep of kings and bankers.
In the morning there more men in black pinstripe suits, typing away at their fraudulent legal briefs on my kid brother’s laptop. The directions on the pill bottle said it would be a long ride into the bedtime dose.
I tried talking cures to cool the fevers, but my forehead remained clammy and hot. And credit cards worked for a while, swiping away the static in my brain. I lugged a package home for every cornstalk in Kansas, a plague of sticky bugs turned to shopping bags. That’s when I knew the money had run dry. We’ve all had the high that comes with a broken promise, sitting down and out on the curb of the strip mall. It happens to everyone. And I’m just waiting for one of the suits to break my heart.
ISBN 1-59661-038-7
21 pages/$9