I’m waiting for the pill whose pharmacological purpose
is to flood me warmly with the capillary wisdom
to pull my Honda off the road as the Rolling Stones spit out
Can’t You Hear Me Knocking and the clarity not to care
if I’m awake or dreaming courses through my bloodstream
as I gaze at ducklings wobbling through a sunlit garden,
past the beans and turnips, veering towards the pumpkins,
still green but thinking it over, taking their time and who
can blame them in their only summer, vines bowing earthward,
prayerfully towards the dirt, going beautifully nowhere.