Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Brown Rice

It doesn’t matter any more if she sends it
or doesn’t send it.
If my eye clears up,
or if my thyroid is off,
or if the doctor who examined me is a condescending ass!
I am tired of scrimping my life
into little boxes of worry,
that are too small for me to breathe in.
I can’t go on like this,
tied up in knots,
wondering if I will marry or not marry,
reproduce or walk through this world alone.
Where is all that Goddamn brown rice
that is supposed to calm me?
Where are the lentils and tofu
and sweeteners?
Haven’t I given up enough already?
Hell, I’m purer than anyone I know,
but what has it gotten me?
Driving to deposit checks
and visits to Dr.’s,
waiting in line while some idiot,
who looks like he just got out of prison,
scoops up
filling for my burrito,
praying the plastic gloves on his hands
haven’t been in his crotch.
Fighting with water services,
and insurers,
and attorneys.
Driving behind drivers that don’t know where they are going
or how to get there or how to make a turn.
Weaving my way
through lane after lane of traffic
and tedium,
wishing someone or something would make me move.
It is all too much.
I can’t undo any of it.
I can’t make any of it right.
There is no one here to help me
but me.
And all the brown rice in the world
can’t make it better.