Bottles in the antique store.
Potions, poisons and promises
in liquid form.
The few labels left present a list
of ailments, a long list,
diverse and impossibly comprehensive.
Snake oil. Magic. Hocus pocus
in an amber bottle. Fortunes were made
for a short while.
At least until the truth arrived.
And then on to the next town,
the next label, the next false story.
Human nature, the need for magic,
ignoring the simple prescriptions, proven,
but in less glamorous bottles.
About this poem
Too often we chase the fads, the wildest promises, ignoring the simple things in life that just work. And we are the losers.