Prescription

Posted on 2020-12-28 by Bartholomew Barker

Prescription

Let’s rip the foil off this new year
like an unopened bottle of pills—
stumbling for the too small tab
along the sticky edges
until I just jam my fat thumb
through it in frustration.

Pluck the cotton— bright as the full moon
and throw it in the overflowing trash.
What use is cotton now that Christmas
has passed and Saturn is on the far side
of the sun? Dawn comes earlier every day
but the cold is getting settled in the earth.

I double-check the warning label—
alcohol is contraindicated for hope.

For this week’s Living Poetry Prompt.

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About Bartholomew Barker

Bartholomew Barker is an organizer of Living Poetry, a collection of poets in the Triangle region of North Carolina where he has hosted a monthly feedback workshop for more than decade. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular, written in and about strip clubs, was published in 2013. His second, Milkshakes and Chilidogs, a chapbook of food inspired poetry was served in 2017. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he lives and writes poetry.
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9 Responses to Prescription

  1. Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld's avatar Lisa Tomey says:
    2020-12-28 at 21:02

    Darn side effects! Good job of punching that stubborn foil.

    Liked by 2 people

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  2. carolyncordon's avatar carolyncordon says:
    2020-12-28 at 23:30

    I was a little bleh about it, the first time I read this poem, then I read it properly, and now I love it. It always pays to read a poem more than just once!

    Liked by 2 people

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  3. Cassa Bassa's avatar Cassa Bassa says:
    2020-12-29 at 06:50

    Sharp analogy

    Liked by 2 people

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