A depot, in this instance, is an intravenous injection of medication. The poem speaks for itself.


Not a storage hangar on the outskirts of the city
but the injection brought by Ruth ,
‘you’re doing really well, my darling..’
and me walking in on the two of you
in the hall, as she punctured white flesh
where the muscle was good, ‘ all done’.
She’s cheery, this one, like the auntie
who slips you a fiver and tells you to hide it.
Over some things you have no choice.
Family. Telling you what makes you worse;
what makes you better. The meds .
Ruth tops you up every two weeks.
Makes you think without any thoughts.


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