The McDonald’s Counter

In the ward, it’s “the McDonald’s counter.”

But there are no juicy burgers here,

no fries, no shake to boot.

Here, the libations are the pills,

little tablets in all the colors that be.

The counter’s just waist-high, with no cover;

you could jump clear over if you wanted.

But who would want to do that, anyway?

Still, it’s the centerpiece of the ward.

Around it, in the morning, after breakfast,

at lunch, at dinner, and just before sleep:

the line forms, a long line, snaking

all around the dayroom, of people in the ward

who need the pills to keep them straight,

or silent, or both at once, or so they’re not anxious,

or angry, or antsy, so they don’t bite their nails,

or jump over rails onto a busy street below.

So they’re not overeager, just have a meager

sense of where they’re existing, and why.

The others take them, and so do I.

And, once the pills are dosed, most retreat

to their various tasks, or in the dayroom, group begins.

So, I’ve learned to shelve my fancier notions –

I’m the President, or leader of the world –

and to exist instead always within the bounds

of the rules of existence I have to follow.

Or, with which I contend. Sometimes, I wish

this’d end. My up and down, I mean.

But, ever there, the McDonald’s counter stands

in the very middle of all our cases, hopes:

to pill us, to instill in us, notions of how

life is meant to be well lived.

Those’re the pills the McDonald’s counter gives.