The devil squats on my roof,
banging. He won’t let me sleep.
Yesterday I saw my wife in the bath,
imagined holding her under
until only a thread of bubbles
came to the surface. You tell me
it’s a chemical imbalance,
say I should trust you,
talk to no one else,
and show me the certificates
on the aubergine walls of your private rooms.
You tell me this time the medication is right
and I will once again be a chemically
balanced individual. But tell me this,
Doctor, where will you be in the night
when I have no one to talk to but myself,
and the devil bangs on my roof?