Jeff Levin's Page

Ode to the Herb Room
By J.V.S. Levin


The Herb Room smells funny
like old socks or old money,
or maybe the closet of one who has died,
or electric wires and plastic, wine-fried.

It’s always heavy, stuff and hot;
surrounded by herbs the color of snot
in jars, drawers, baggies and more,
still others stashed behind a locked door.

When people walk by they remark on my hat
it’s disposable, white, and, on my head, it sits flat.
And like Michael Jackson, I wear just one glove
to touch the herbs with, and I touch them with love.

There’s lots of boredom during the long lull
until a raw formula comes, with herbs to pull
and weigh and chart and bag in a hurry
for a dear patient whose vision is blurry

Some herbs on the top shelf are forbidden for use.
They’ll make you vomit, or one’s bowels loose.
One might be mercury and one is expired,
another is charred and looks like it was fired.

I sit here and think about single herb function:
their temperature, taste, and inherent good gumption.
I contemplate the Tao and if each herb know the way,
‘cause there’s not much to do on my Herb Room day.