Counting Pills

If dying was easy, I would have done it sooner

Would you believe

me if I told you

I wasn’t really

counting pills?

Would you believe

me if I had said I

wasn’t ready to go?

But the whiskey bottle

is empty and

so too the pill containers.

The white, blue,

green and cream

were supposed

to make me happy. 

But I remained

wrapped in melancholy

despite their efforts.

The pills slide down

 and I slow down.

I feel the atria lurch

followed by the ventricles.

The transition falters

and draws to a close.

It does not matter.

Barbara Brooks is a retired physical therapist living in North Carolina and a member of the poetry group Poet Fools. She is an avid birder and has traveled extensively throughout the world viewing wild birds in their natural habitat. She frequently incorporates nature in her poetry as an extension of her love of the outdoors. She has two chapbooks: The Catbird Sang and A Shell to Return to the Sea. She has had published poems in a number of eclectic journals such as Jellyfish Whispers, Tar River Poetry, Peregrine and Third Wednesday, Silkworm.