Left-over Anxiety Pills

They sit sealed in a little off-brown container
inside the white ceramic casserole dish I use for
make-up I don’t wear and anti-aging creams I do, 

not unlike the expiring brussel sprouts purchased
weeks ago at the whole foods store by the me that
was going to gallop into gourmet but tripped over

the hint-of-lime tortilla chips and fell head first
into wondering what I am doing with my life and
if  there is any way to relieve the pressure cooker

feeling that there is too much to do on Mt. Olympus
and I can’t remember what Zeus’s wife’s powers were
nor where she is supposed to recharge the lighting bolts
when she forgets how to re-plug into the goddess she is.