Using a Wilkinson “sword” blade
Juan’s trying to free a strand of dental floss
caught up in between his upper right canine
and incisor, as the six phenobarbitals
he took ten minutes ago to get to sleep
commence to make him drowsy and garrulous.
Addressing the medicine-chest mirror, Juan says he’s
already slit his lip twice trying
to get the “bashturd” out. He’s
garbling his words, wiggling his tongue
clear of the razor. Why mention
I have to shit?
Return to my room,
reciting backwards the alphabet.