Your Oxy's Are Worth Thousands

You get your little blue pills

 Worth thousands of dollars, you say,

And count them

Over and over again

In a dark room

In a dark car

On your mother’s couch

On your unmade bed

And then….

You spill them all over the floor

And must count them again.  

More missing each time

Less to count, but each becoming

An even more precious commodity

Your lips mottled and dry

With that sticky blue spittle

And your pupils shrink

Tiny, black points

I imagine your soul

Is fleeing

Diminishing through those

Little black points.  

I’m leaving, I say,

You don’t hear me.

I walk out the door feeling  

A demon smile smugly

Burning the skin  

Of my receding back

Through those little black pupils

While carefully eyeing

That diminishing pile

Of little blue pills