Just Say, Over My Dead Body

Flashing lights, square red ambulance, blue uniforms, shiny metal stretcher on wheels, practiced faces set to stare down, past, through the ugly truth.

In the swanky hotel room, the brick house on the suburban cul-de-sac, townhouse on concrete , trailer on blocks in patch of red clay, bottles including Xanax, Lorazepam, Valium, ibuprofen, Midol, and more, cough syrup, steroids, animal tranquilizers, Ambien, Oxycontin.

Police know the addresses by hard heart from histories of disturbances and outbursts, domestic violence, child neglect, truancy.

The investigators do not look too hard for the conspicuous jewelry, ammo, fishing tackle, sewing box with baggies, syringe, spoon, flick lighter, rubber tie, because if the family gets a chance first, the only problem is just exactly how to accomplish disposal without drawing attention or leaving a trail.

The toxicology report takes a matter of weeks.  No reason to be in a hurry to make worse cold facts already chiseled in stone.

Back during the Vietnam war, I remember believing how the war would end when every block in every neighborhood had lost someone.  The Vietnam Memorial contains 58,195 names, including those unaccounted for.  Not named: the 15 percent of Vietnam veterans who came home addicted to heroin: 2,709,918 Vietnam vets X  .15 = 406,487 back home, still MIA.  Maybe they have all been accounted for to everyone's satisfaction by now.

Imagine there's a Drug War Memorial; it would cover the entire Washington Mall from the Capitol lawn to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, with names on its wall: diva darling daughter son mother father sister brother.