O, Citalopram

Thanks to you my meathead is better than it was
but not as good as it used to be. Geewillikers,
who knew all the things you can do,
banish the gravity holding me down,
keep my powder dry so I can apply
my flame to the first combustible thing,
take me back to Sacro Cuore on Kensal Rise.
Pleasantly aflame, I fondle your bottle, O Citalopram,
your grounded bones, my bloodstream,
a peanut butter and jelly side effect
we can all live with. I'm no longer
pissed off in the flower section
because of previously frozen roses,
no longer ransacked by self-abandonment,
no longer stuck in a beer-stained two-step
with sawdust on the floor.
My ski goggles drip with sweet success.
Sure, I'm full of fitful sleep
and a nebulous dynamism, but 
now that I'm dead the pressure's off,
my day not ruined by a shattering mood.
I'm a sophomore cheerleader in the senior lounge,
a nun among Visigoths,
a citizen of the frenzy.

This poem is from When the Crickets Within Me Whisper, my new uncalled for collection available at an Amazon near you.