Bitter medicine

Codeine Christmas Eve

Tires on Lakeshore Drive

sound like damp skin peeled clean  

of an endless adhesive bandage

unwound to reveal no visible wounds.

A dull razor riding along

the contour of patrician chin

that juts into Lake St. Clair

below Vernier Road

taking the utmost

care to avoid

nicking the thin skin

of exposed neck

stretched tight

above Windmill Pointe Drive.  

Menthol splash from the curling sheet

off Canada

swept in to   

soothe abraded estates

grown lush and full

from the stubble

of French ribbon farms,

a bracing slap in the face

to sting flood-lit Mary’s

and Joseph’s, huddled trio’s

of prostrate wise men

warming their hands,

thawing their myrrh

over drums of burning pallets,

a lava flow of colored lights,

bulb after bulb homing in

on a targeted neuron,

rendering the season

in crisp pixilation.

Bygone Rx stringencies

demanded both a wink and a nod,

“A bottle of your best, Lloyd”

to nurse a pertussint cough

persistent enough to draw

mothers and fathers attention,

exacting draftsmanship

demanding persistence,

devouring pencils like pretzel rods,

easier in the end

to render the wandering

magnetic pole

in a half-hearted sketch, only

beginning to limn dim icebergs off the starboard bow

towering over the deck

where they rearranged the chairs

and prescribed a double quelling dose.

Tires on Lakeshore Drive

echo across the years

the faded sound of a late night drive

trailing a falling star,

wallowing in frankincense,

swaddled in self-righteousness,
wreathed in dull-eyed oh woe is me.