(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.”)
13th on Dominicus
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.