Sometimes you write a poem about a feeling that's lived inside you for a long time, and that poem itself lives inside you a long time, and you can't tell if you imagined the moment that inspired it or not. 

In the case of this poem, I think I conflated two things: somebody who came by to check on my dad while he awaited trial with me witnessing my father taking his meds. 

Though maybe there was a Mr. Mulroney out there. If you exist, will you drop me a line? 

_______________________

Dad taught me how to hide a pill

between my cheek and gums 

way at the back of my mouth. 
“So they won’t notice,” he said.
“So they’ll think you swallowed it.” 

I knew he meant Mr. Mulroney 
who came by to open the pill bottles
and count the pills 
and hand one to my father 
who glowered beside him in the bathroom mirror.

Father was sick, mother needed rest. 
I knew no more.
The word thorazine meant nothing to me. 
Mr. Mulroney came because he cared. 
He carried no black bag or pistol, but handcuffs dangled 
from the belt loop of his uniform blue trousers. 
He always had a smile for me, especially the morning 

I emerged from my room, too late to be in pajamas. 

I blocked his path to my father 
put a wad of blue paper in my mouth 
and swallowed it dry.

“See,” I said, gaping wide 
for untrusting eyes. “All gone.”