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.