Ronald Moran, Bad Night

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.

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