Concerta and Caffeine

Concerta and Caffeine

Jill Campbell

Concerta can’t handle the company of caffeine,

and I’m stuck paying attention to the bees in my fingers

as they crawl along my sun-exposed nerves at the bus stop.

The commute is every passenger’s story,

with me the only listener, wondering if I look anxious

because no one has taken the seat next to me yet.

When I reach class, I realize it’s Monday

--a simple explanation for nothing making sense—

and by now I’m filled with buzzing, stinging noise.

5 glorious 15, and Intaglio can wait for Wednesday,

when I take my meds with water,

and I’m not running late getting home.

Again route C is mouths and clacking teeth,

but by now the hive in my arms is still, and I smile,

able to choose whether I listen or not.

The final step up to my floor is Everest,

and I climb every evening with my weariness,

and hundreds of drones slumbering in my palms.

The front door is a distant slam from in my room,

muffled by the soothing hum of my air cleaner

purchased so I can stop thinking and rest.

The bees are nothing but weight now,

and I on a soft pillow

doze within the blanket of mindless electrical hum.

Tomorrow I will skip my dose, and I

will lay down my limbs

and crush the honeyed combs of the hive.