Each black suit paces in and out the house, ducking under yellow crime scene tape. Stone-faced police look grave for your benefit. Their five o'clock shadows stain otherwise dull faces. The thinnest cop with his long, bony fingers drops empty pill bottles in a bag. His eyes glaze over. I sit outside the bathroom door. My head explodes. My hands and feet explode. The cop does his job. The night goes mad as a starved dog, but he'll get things done. Someone zips you up inside a bag. The cops file out like stiff little quarter notes. You go last, black bag. A long, quiet rest.
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