This isn’t helping, I can tell—
out of the shower and onto this pill.
Somebody guessed just what life was like
then made a pill for it.
I’m not mad at you. I’ve run out of that kind of madness.
I’m just confused—it’s only a little flu,
but your body circles my three-pronged cane,
and lands on the toilet like a vulture.
Ugh, I’m dying, you say, but you just mean nothing changes.
I wish I could help you. But only time can help you.
I wish it could help me.
The door is crying drops of water
that knew my face once—
press your face against my face
in the glass.