He likes a little Vicodin so much
that though he hasn’t sought it on the street,
he’s not above some friendly theft. His touch
is cautious and his attitude’s discreet;
he’s purloined pills from parents, in-laws, friends.
He likes the way a little dose forbids
anxiety, how calm his manner trends,
but he won’t steal a tablet from his kids.
His adult offspring have enough on hand
they wouldn’t miss a few, unless they paid
attention, kept a tally, maybe planned
surveillance from some symptom he betrayed.
Unlikely as discovery would be,
he dreads it so he’s bound to honesty.