Living the Life, Daily

I’ve wanted to scream bloody murder--
and I have— when I couldn’t find the pramipexolene
much less the Lyrica,
or I couldn’t open the package
that poor workers in China
press hot and wet into a mold
that makes Americans go crazy with
frustration, when for a second the only thing that
matters in the whole wide world is access. 
There isn’t a Zen approach, really, to such
Need. Oh you can try to think of the planet
and the people before you go into a frenzy
in your search for scissors
to cut it out. Then you turn around
thing in hand, pure relief of thing released before
you look down and there’s
shit and pee and vomit everywhere, 
maybe even some blood, 
you tell the woman on the line from the animal poison control center 
who tells you that if your cat even licked one capsule
he can be brain dead within minutes.
You take five of these a day, to help you walk a straight line.
What about me? you want to scream.
You’ve read about the water world wide
awash in all the drugs we flush.
You think it can’t get much worse.
If you’ve learned anything over time
it’s that we don’t get to pick our poison. 
It chooses us.