Islands

My man pops Oxycodonelike the bread of Jesus.

They sit on the top shelfof his medicine cabinet.

I tried to talk with him,but he is an island

who falls asleep every nightat the dinner table.

He refuses to exercise,says that pills and Massare all he needs.

He chides me for not goingand tells me I never finishwhat I start.

When he goes to bed for the night,I leave for a barwhere I order top-shelf Long Islands.

I come back to his houseand pee on the kitchen floor—on his kitchen island.

I woke up before he did.Cleaned it up.But I didn’t start this poem.