Yellow Jackets

I’ve often wondered if the pills are following the directed course
or if they’ve chosen roads less traveled.

It feels to me they have gotten wedged
tween thoughts and empty space.

My fingers wither in pain,
ringing of hands have bruised over the years.

Despair consumes me as eyes refuse to dip in the public pool;
there’s a murky pond somewhere, where yellowjackets roam,

I’ve grown accustomed to keeping things private.

I’m alone again, in thought
and it’s a lonely place to be.