Old Medicine

Your eye scans the window sill,
slowly scanning the row of antique bottles,
wondering what old medicine filled them,
what promise of health rose like sour perfume
from each, and why now, their miracles no longer suffice,
no longer cure, why now

we need so desperately to change
when perhaps who and what we always were
was always enough.

About this poem

You are enough. We forget that sometimes.

Tom