The Inventory

The man in the slush by the pharmacy door

shook out his coat like a bird in the rain.

He checked the same pocket a dozen times more,

a frantic, repeating, and desperate strain.

I know that twitch in the marrow of things,

the way the hand goes to the orange glow

of the plastic bottle that bites and stings

with a hunger only the hollowed-out know.

I used to count them, the chalky and white,

measuring the hours I had left to be whole.

Now I just watch from the edge of the light,

feeling the phantom weight in my soul.