When you die alone
nobody beside you to see
your heart erupts through your chest
and a thousand tiny people crawl out.

Some of them climb down the bedside
and build condos in your carpet;
others climb up the lamp
and start hang gliding businesses.

Still others make their way
down the stairs and out into the garden
where they ride on great snails’ backs
singing wistful cowboy songs
in memory of your greatness.

Pharmaceutical angels hover
in the space above my sleeping head
chanting slogans
they have been paid
to whisper in my ear.

“Keep it clean with Terbenafine.”
“You can fly on Abilify.”
“Everyone’s lean on Levothyroxine.”
“Go on a roll with Anastrazole.”
“You’ll get a thrill from Lisinopril.”
“There ain’t no reputin’ the bliss of Welbutrin.”
“Don’t be a geek. Take Pristiq.”
“Go far on Adderall XR.”
“if you want to rate, take Cypionate.”

I wake with a jolt
the neurons of my prefrontal cortex
already firing like machine guns of craving
for the treasure in my medicine chest
and I know everything is going to be fine,
just fine.