At the Drug Clinic by Sherri Levine

From where I sit on the toilet, I count three rolls of fat
hanging over the tech’s zebra stretch pants
“Lift your shirt higher,” she says.
She points between my legs,
her nails pink with little gold stars.  

I hold the cup under me so long my hand shakes.
It reminds me of the tremor I had
from the meds at the hospital.
My hair fell in clumps in the shower,
Black strands scattered over the white pillows.
The doctor said, “Don’t worry. Your body
will adjust.” But when he upped my dosage
my arms went rigid like an automaton.
Dustin, the schizophrenic, made fun at me
as I shuffled past him down the hall.
“Whore!” he yelled.

Now the tech stares at me and waits.
The more she stares, the more my hand shakes.
Outside the bathroom, patients smoke cigarettes
and wait their turn.

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