Pills

"Dyoy, dyoy, dyoy,
Haayyeeee...,"
frantic residents yell,
the ones that can mutter
enough to voice their pain,
as much mental, emotional, psychological
as nerve endings, damaged cells, diseased organs.
All translates into Vicodin, Darvocet, Ativan, Restoril...

Here the dying live.
I give them pills their charts allow,
crush them, dissolve them, syringe them
through their tummy tubes.
But no measure is enough.
There is no joy ride.
No joy.
No laughing with friends,
no poems to share.
No sharing.
At least I give them recognition,
humanity,
a pillow for their souls,
a ticket to sleep,
a smile
if
they awake.