It’ll happen one day.
In the queue and
no one in front of me
looks well.
I hide my sickness well.
A man says something to a nurse,
she isn’t listening.
‘Take your prescription, goodbye.’
A crisp white bag.
And then it’s just me.
‘Hi again, don’t worry,
I’m not contagious,
or at least I don’t think I am.’
A frown at a joke,
that isn’t really a joke.
‘Please wait here.’
Breath stops, heart freezes.
Is this the day
it finally happens?
I count my stash in my head:
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five months,
before it would run dry.
I’m safe even if today is
The Day.
She returns and as always:
‘Are you sure this dosage
is correct?’
‘Yes.’
Squints. Skeptical?
Still not breathing. But,
I leave,
a crisp white bag.
Containing another
one,
two,
three,
four weeks of life.