Pills- a Poem

Pills 

I know pills as useless as it seems. 

And over the years I am asked about an ache, a rash, or if the hole within- can be patched with a tiny blue pill. 

Today, a man sits across from my wide desk- to test me- can I find the pill for his own hole?

His hair cropped close-beard neatly trimmed. 

His tongue darts nervous along his cracked lips. 

Eyes jumping over the smooth desks between us to the cityscape behind my shoulder. 

He knows of his wife and heartbreak. Of the bottom of a whiskey bottle. 

Lifting his hands - he shows me 

the ever present tremor - how hard is it to hold the his camera- his hands shaking as fine as static. 

While, I admire the subtle irony of sobriety. 

I think of propranolol- a pill of sweetness- subtle calmness - lowering of the rapid pulse. 

I am on friendly terms with 

propranolol - I have no rancor with this pill

The man continues to tell me 

Of the worry like elephants crashing around inside the wreckage of his chest. 

His heart of broken glass made from the bottles of whiskey- as he had made as a fence posts between him and his wife. 

He can hardly breathe with the sharpness. 

It comes at night - a potent excitement - as Insomnia peels back his eyes every night in his twin bed. Electric. 

The elephants dance between us and I doubt the potency of propranolol and suggest gabapentin. 

His face grimaces with disgust - the crudeness of my offer 

Didn’t I know any better? Gabapentin was a disgusting offer. Made him feel terrible. 

He twists his cap again- tongue darting along his lips suggesting I transition him from sertraline to something else. 

My eyes close with deep resistance-

I move the chess piece over to the side and place a referral to psychiatry. 

I offer silent gratitude to the acrobat of that dance - who shakes a taper without trouble every Thursday. 

Tucking the loose hair behind my ear- I enter his propranolol into his chart, I remind him of its side effects.

And next week- he can tell me if propranolol has the power to lift the elephants and broken glass from the inside of his chest. 

He steps away and my tea- now cold- travels down my throat knowing the truth- no pill has that power- 

The wounded heart is infinitely complex. 

But there is that potency of placebo which rests in every pitch as I scribe another magic pill for everyone who rests their hands on their hearts staring at across the wide expanse of my smooth wooden desk.