Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

One More Chocolate

There is always one more bill,
one more pot,
one more dish,
one more phone call from Novato,
one more baby,
coming.
I feel like I am in an episode of “I Love Lucy,”
the one where Lucy and Ethel go to work in that chocolate factory.
The conveyor belt is sending down chocolates
and I am stuffing them into my blouse,
and mouth,
and pants,
and hat,
as fast as I can,
but I still can’t get ahead.
There is always another one coming.
I see a dark filled one -
This one is the I.R.S.
I see another one with a pink flower on top -
This one is a dirty oatmeal pot.
I see a milk chocolate one with a gooey center -
This one is a broken pair of headphones
that have needed repairing for over a year.
I see a statement from the Social Security office
letting me know I’m not eligible for any benefits.
I see MySpace and Email
and things I wish no one had ever invented.
And the phone keeps ringing.
And ringing.
And ringing.
And now they are putting her away.
Now the IRS is coming.
Now I don’t even have time to get married,
or have a fuckin’ piece of Manna Bread,
or take my dog to the park.
I feel sick from all that I have eaten.
All the sticky goo I have swallowed
is in my throat and lungs
and I am trying to breathe,
to scream,
but there is no sound,
just the conveyor belt
sending out more little chocolates
for me.