Somehow, carrying my coffee cup and
Breakfast bowl, the curl of my finger lets
Slip the St John’s Wort. So, I watch its fall
Through seemingly thick air to thin grey carpet.
Its sunshine coloured, sugar coated self
Stays where it fell. Happy smartie, I am
Able in half sleep to keep cup balanced
And bending creaking knees – reach for it –
Picking up pill and tumbled images
How readily the mind finds metaphors
How eager it is to swallow somethink
And be made happy in its mistaking.
Gulp back the clichés. You mustn’t cry
The bubble pack holds a month’s supply.