Pill Count

I had it in the garbage bag,

bunched between a stained sheet

and a pair of shoes with no tread left.

But the dresser splinter caught a loop

on the left wrist,

pulling a long, thin umbilical of wool.

I pulled it back out.

Under the arms, the pills are thick,

hard little grey barnacles

grown from the friction of moving,

of simply existing

inside this itchy, second-hand skin.