by Mark Danowsky

Can I become
the secular patron saint
of hangovers? Truth is
I want to help, but
am not good with blood.
At the doctor, I must not watch
blood drain from my veins
slow filling tiny plastic vials.
Sickness creeps over me
and that's why the salts are there
surgical taped to the outside
of the cabinet above the sink
where at any moment the tape
might slacken or dry up, drop
the salts into the tiny chute
for the container with a biohazard
symbol in black and yellow
tempting the obsessive-destructive
mind to reach a finger inside
where a sea of syringes awaits.

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