I swallowed heaping teaspoons
of forgets-where-it-has-been
and stacked little orange bottles full
of does-not-know-where-it-is-going
on the grey marbled kitchen counter
for tomorrow.

Neither were expected to have an affect
on my current condition
which I was certain had no earthy cure.
The mind is a well oiled,
finely tuned machine
designed to want to solve for X.

Solutions require removing variables.
Hence these two.
These too
are being removed
from realms of possibility—
down the throat and ruled out.
Stripped from the numerator
on both sides.

A cure for the common Y—
cold sweat, broken heart,
loaded gun on stage, or
<insert anything here>
—can’t be prescribed
or scribed before, or after.
Only during.
Only now.