By: Rohit Mukherjee

Kensington & Cambria, 4:10 PM
I saw the man from Clinic:
His thick matted black hair,
Deep wound on his forehead
Bleeding a lazy, red stream.
His body was falling asleep.

His eyes were drifting,
Sheathed by confused lids
Opening and closing
Cyclically,
Slowly.

The Clinic, 3:30 PM
“Baby, we gon’ give you narcan.
Just know, you get it if you fall asleep”
Yellow jacket, bleach blond hair,
She was sunshine and concern.

He stared indifferently,
Slumped in a chair.
Commotion buzzing around him,
His puff jacket was a defense
Covering all but his eyes.
He wanted to hide.

And then he disappeared.
Sunshine ran around whimpering,
Angst filling her face
Staring at an empty lawn chair.

Kensington & Hart, 4:08 PM
I thought he was dancing.
There was reggaeton booming.
His torso collapsed to the beat.
To his left:
Gleaming white washing machines.
To his right:
A Technicolor empanada.
The sidewalk was a stage.

No.
Legs failing him,
His slender frame fell
Slowly, gracefully
A piece of paper,
Drifting from air to concrete.

Eyes widening,
He hoisted himself up,
And walked south.

Kensington & Somerset, 4:20 PM
My watch said we walked for 15 minutes.
Fear amplified every second.
Every breath he took was a gift,
A way for my panic to ease.
Every time he closed his eyes,
I felt him drifting away.

He spoke the entire time.
What words did he say?
Nothing made sense.
Maybe it was heroin
Cooking up word salad.

Maybe it was panic,
Filling my ears.
Irony is a dark putrid wax:
My head, so full of science
My heart, beating furiously
Eyes waiting for chest rises,
All so utterly powerless.