The Unsent Script

You are three people ahead of me in line

holding a box that looks heavy.

I have three pages of a speech

taped to the inside of my ribcage.

The packing tape in my hand is a mess,

the end lost somewhere on the roll,

my thumb picking at the sticky edge

until the plastic turns white and opaque.

I could tell you exactly how the floor felt

the day you left the door standing open,

but the clerk calls 'next' and I just stand there

feeling the script dissolve like a wet pill.