Early Warning System

The pharmacist says ten more minutes

and my left eye starts its little percussion,

a frantic tapping against the skull

like a trapped bird or a telegram.

I look at my face in the plexiglass—

it’s a smudge of beige and anxiety,

the fluorescent tubes overhead

warping into white snakes in the reflection.

My tongue is a heavy piece of wet velvet.

I want to say I’ll come back later

but the air in the store is turning to silt

and the eyelid keeps clicking, clicking,

telling me to get out before the ceiling drops.