Ron. Lavalette


Seeing Margot


I see Margot two or three times a month,

tell her about my fear of being hunted,


being rounded up for running out of pills

in the middle of the night. Mostly, she


waits patiently while I caress my lies or

opt, instead, to spend my time describing


the things I find lying on the frozen lawn.

Sometimes when we talk I think about how


I left the other doctor high and dry, owing

him thousands of dollars, and I remember


saying goodbye to Trudy back on the ward,

watching me go and asking if I'd gotten the cure.


Yesterday I let my watch read 11:50 all day long.

Late in the morning, something like snow came


spitting down, overwhelming my wipers.

Crossing Main near midnight, I saw Margot


through the windshield. I wanted to get out

and tell her that I've lived before, tell her


that the exterminators are coming around

to gather us up, that I need to see her now


for an hour or so, need to have some coffee,

need to get and take my pills, go home,


scrape the baby off the frozen grass.