The Prescription (after Afghanistan)

People in this country complain that doctors over-medicate.

Then, imagine a barren and cursed land
strewn with a prescription of asteroids.

This is a moon of one of Satan's old projects,
and his managers
tend to the choruses of boulders,
rolling them around so that nothing grows,
they snort their dusty curses,
their wings crackling from the dry,
descending cold.

Yet people exist here,
on a credit card from Prometheus,
waiting for some holy paper,
some holy passport
out of the reign of stones.