No fanfare,
this treaty I’ve hammered out,
just injectable gold
liquid and pills.
Multicolored capsules
but generally pills:
the geometry of relief.

Ardent ambassadors,
doctors insist the treaties
supplying liquid gold
and little pills deliver hope.
They talk to me about hope,
like priests murmuring to condemned
about eternity.
I like to hear them say these things.
But I notice hope
no longer
crosses frontiers of pain.
Just the same,
I want to believe them.

Like all Treaties,
this is commerce:
doctors prescribe and I consume,
and we pretend,
to everyone’s benefit,
that this will comfort restless minds.

But like all the rest of us
enveloped in pain
I’ve had to take control:
I now prefer endurance.
I no longer bargain for
hope. No,
I’ve accepted a treaty for the simply

It’s a good deal,
this treaty between endurance
and tolerable.

About left0089

Columnist at American News Report. Pain care activist. Poet, memoirist.
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