by Anne Bromley
I read the beer truck’s bumper:
and hear the rumbling
engine of an R.V. devoted to blood donors.
The vehicle’s sides implore passers-by,
Somebody’s life depends on you,
but I am here to pick up drugs —
one to kill the tick’s disease
that would slowly break down
the cell’s defenses, the other to level despair,
to bring me up for air from the sea
of ordinary sorrows.
I cannot give today.