Ronald Moran
BAD NIGHT
In between mini-bottles of Jim Beam
to ease
the pain taking shape in my left ear
and
two kinds of nasal sprays to address
my ear’s
recalcitrant behavior, I am, as usual,
stuck,
knowing that regardless of what I do,
nothing
will soften the eventual discomfort
to come
this Friday night or Saturday morning,
with my
doctor having left for her upper floor
residence,
and all the urgent care centers staffed
by losers
of last night’s late-shift poker games,
all
of whom yearn for a couch, TV, plus
the love
of a caring spouse, obedient children,
and peace,
a five-letter word no longer in their
lexicons,
and quickly leaving mine, as the scale
for pain
mounts just as the once hoped-for help
recedes.
Wild Goose Poetry Review 