Death at Baker Street
By Andrea Malcolm
Sadly, I shake my head-
He's shot more cocaine again.
Ebony pipe sits upon shrunken lips, so still. So still.
Rapturous mental energy, pent up, clawing at the armrest,
Lying to me-lying that the bees are not swarming, attacking his mind-
Odors leak from his mouth, stain his chin. He hears me no longer-
Calling him back to me.
Knock him for six. I should knock him for six.
He would waste so much, so much.
Only my own searing guilt stops my fist from stabbing at his brain-
Losing him. Tears scar my cheeks.
Maybe there's nothing left to save: I know it's too late-
Ever after he will surrender to the needle, and not my body.
So what can I say-
I could have crushed the syringe-
Shattered the little bottle of death.
Do it, I said, do it! Save him! You are a doctor!
End his suffering! You are his only…but no, I only watched.
And I think now-
Damnit, I may as well have jabbed the needle in his vein myself.