friday sonnet (#215: pseudoephedrine)

the good, the bad, & the fugly compare

notes scrawled on their arms with

abandon, that is, you leave them to it &

the inspection spreads, you mean

infection, hyperthreaded, controls set,

now your tastes are base & basis-free

& your stimulants trigger epic fail, so

drowsy, so out of the zone, nothing on

radar after you fake the call to ops & when

security arrives to ask their standard

questions you give your stock responses,

teeth swimming in bile, tender-hearted &

partially translated, waiting for the

litigants, textbook full of margins