Cauldron boil and Cauldron Bubble

This one is white. round and bitter,
should you make the mistake of biting into it.
Wash it down fast and let it eat away
at the sugars. With luck and work,
I get to keep my long toes
and eyesight in the one eye that works.

This one is kinda pinky purple.
It turns down the acid that eats
more than food, It’s cute. I like it. It tastes like berries.
Or so they say.

This one is insurance. A slightly happy pill
that I may or may not need any longer, but,
having lived in the darkness of hell,
a few bucks a month to keep the lights on.
Works for me.

Oh, and this stuff?
The sludgy green liquid in the cup on my desk?
It’s for the cold that has kicked my brain
into neutral, or perhaps even reverse.
Nasty stuff. I know I am getting better
when I can tasted it,
which fortunately is not this morning.

There are others. A circus of chemistry,
a clown on a tight wire,
without a net.

My body is less a temple
than a chemical factory,
with my doctor (I am sure his name is Oz, the powerful)
mixing a stew designed to heal
hopefully without explosions of the most
unpredictable
kind.

About this poem.

I have a bad cold. I’m tired of making sense through the fever, so I wrote this instead.

Tom