quitting methamphetamines

yesterday      i smashed a bug on the baseplate      in my dozer
had to crush it      three times      my steel toe made a weird sound
like when you step on a crack      pipe or meth pipe      tho you
ain’t heard that      sounds like the first time dawn’s light refracts
into rainbows on a checkered cloth      that covered the collapsing
plastic card table you sat by in the kitchen      as a child     slowly
the liquid resin      that ancient amber      pours cool and clear into
your ears      singing a song of ten million promises      for tomorrow
only to realize as your boot presses firm      on that kaleidoscope
glass that this very same amber      is beginning      to crystallize
crack on the path from your eardrums to ossicles      until it shatters
one thousand razor sharp      golden shards      pieces of precious
dust containing petrified fossils of yesterday      sweep the remains
of that pipe off your floor      those slivers of memories      rain
from your reddened eyes      blood for tears which as genesis flood
the room         the city           the oceans           the world
until you grasp      courage      throw those leering remains      to dogs
and dumpsters out back.  it’s like that.

Carlin is an emergency physician. So many of his patients deal with addiction to methamphetamines and fentanyl, and these drugs have ruined so many lives in the North Carolina community in which he lives. This poem is a retelling of all the “quit stories” he’s ever heard. He still prays for them all.