13th on Dominicus

(For my poetry class, we had to chose from a list of prompts and make it a real scenario. The prompt I chose was “The air is still all week except on Sunday afternoons when the wind blows.”)

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13th on Dominicus

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We scatter our ashes when we hear

autumn leaves scrape along the cement

because in Eurus the air is still all week except

on Sunday afternoons when the wind blows

through the dusty streets and across the wooden porches

where we hung candy colored wind chimes

like portraits of all the different pills we took.

Chalk dust blue, powder orange, lavender –

always pastels, nothing offensive.

There’s something soothing about pastels,

like the breeze wandering through our wind chimes,

just a reminder that we’re still breathing.

We are a medicated generation,

it’s a wonder we still feel anything at all

when we’re so quick to numb our problems

instead of fixing them. Benzos for anxiety,

opiates for pain, but all they do is make us forget,

we live in a haze, in a fog that won’t lift.

Though for some of us there’s stimulants,

Ritalin, serotonin reuptake inhibitors.

Any quick fix, any synthetic happiness will do.

Why work towards personal betterment,

strive for spiritual satisfaction,

when its all right here, between our fingers?

Just swallow, smile, and repeat.