Fluoxetine

FLUOXETINE
You’re a little sickly yellow-green,
Marked like a convict or cattle,
A little pet, all warm and curled
In my cupped hand in the pocket
That will take me to this street:
The air is crystal, and the sky is not grey
Like my head but royal and crimson and gold.
Me and my cotton-wool skull walk together
Through this clean,
Down this drab little road;
There are fists on all sides of my head.
The police are there with their battering-rams –
I can hear their hopeful wail.
Pocket pouch,
A snug little face all wrapped
Up in a film of diamond plastic
That stands between us like some obscene
Screen of silver,
As if through a smiling mirror
You’re a drink to the future,
And I love, I love your promise.
I don’t care how long,
Happy little pill,
Barbie-doll sour,
The elixir of life.