Space for Pill
Bottles
This flushed, spiced blood reeling
back, boxer's punch glove in
still-life smile, made the bones
more visible day by day, watch hand
by green oven clock light,
never could quite tear from plastic
hands, never could push away your
candy-sweets and oiling slosh.
When you'd nail your will name
to the Lord's house door, shameful
in the Sunday tea time sun, I'd
take down to thumb the pages clean
of ink shrivel wrapping blank stain
left in fingerprint cascades, the
same marking of greasy tripwire
facade you fake in the theatre hour.
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