Say Spilt Milk

is worth crying over.  Say the viaduct is just right for counting cars or contemplation or leaping.  Say the alphabet backwards to a cop and he’ll think you sober, but crazy, call his cop friends, cart you off to the hospital, one with a pleasant name-say Hillcrest or Mountain View-you say you don’t know how long you stood there, how long you watched the stop-and-go traffic of this 20-mile strip mall, bound in power lines, watched the Krispy Kreme sign, neon pink and stuck-NOW NOW NOW NOW-the doctor asks who I am, am I the girlfriend (the recently departed, though not dead), and you say no, still knowing enough to chuckle a bit-your being Black and 20, my being White and well on my way to 40, this being Tuscaloosa.  Forgive me for thinking I look 25.  Just for a second.  Family friend, we decide.  You say your symptoms.  I make my brain make a list-call your sister, get you clean clothes and books.  There’s a list of things that cannot be on my list.  You can have money, but only $15.00 per day.  I can bring flowers, but only in coated cardboard containers or baskets without wires.  No lighters.  No shampoo.  No sharp objects.  The TV is stuck on Fox News, this being Tuscaloosa.  Behind the next curtain a guy tells the nurse, I was too fucked up to come in here last night, but I’m here now.  He’s still fucked up.  Everyone knows this but him.  It is too much to ask to take you now, buy you a burger and run by the comic book store.  I bring you a pen (allowed) and a yellow legal pad.  I’m not allowed to bring you dental floss, talcum powder or collectable cards, not allowed to toss the aspirin out- how many options did you need-allowed to play the older sister, but not to take this punch for you.