Pharm Blues

July 18, 2017

We watch the sickness tide down the interstate, 

  Through borders, county lines, 

Watch it hit the college kids, the waiters in Boston, 

    Ski boys in Vermont, farmers in the Berkshires, 

The thing about contagion: not long before everyone knows

    somebody with hooks in.

Wicked. This.

 

Even before the damages pile on you can smell the brain decay, 

The gnashing of teeth, rolled back eyes, pounds of muscle lost to the wind, 

Then the drop outs, lost jobs, crashes, hell.

 An epidemic, they're calling it, "9 lives here just last week." 

 

Bodies stripped to last instinct sucking dust in the vacants,

Under bridges, corpse-posing in the garage, fifty sharps sticking skyward. 

 

Then it was off the tele, beyond the papers, 

A friend who stopped answering,

An uncle paling in shadow, 

Families  down to their bones, suburbs rotting from foundation.

Accounts are emptied, sons of the town transfixed in breathless birdying. 

 

A wave crashing over slow and thunderous,

All turns to heat and gasping,

A sliver of men lining their pockets

As sanctity plunges into nihil. 

 

 

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