It’s like a movie house,
except there is no movie-
only the sadness of real life:
a psychiatrist meeting
with drug representatives.
Filling prescriptions
after ten minutes of
conversation with me.
I’m an ATM, a ticket booth,
a drive thru with no repercussions.
Here’s a pen, a spongy pig
with yet another drug name on it.
Today H-pylori in my esophagus:
vomiting endlessly
at the sight of news.
When I say
‘I want to kill myself’ with a smile,
he will say, thank you, and have a nice day.