Because the statues
were so much plastic kitsch,
I found it difficult
to take the doctors seriously.
I took their
institutional questions as obscene
while sitting on frayed lawn chairs
on freshly cut grass.
We sat in a half circle
with the psych doctor opposite us,
wondering if our similar defects
make us kin or family.
I had not yet learned
your names or your ages
but the doctor felt at ease
telling everyone our middle names.
The doctor told us we looked beautiful.
Me with my white goatee.
Gale with the bandage around
a self-inflicted gunshot wound in her thigh.
Marla’s face still droopy
after the forced calm of a Thorazine night.
Carlos full of machismo in his wheelchair
knowing diabetes eats his remaining leg.
The doctor asked us to speak our truths
as if her pen was a magic wand
to move the stone over the cave entrance
to allow the Christ to rise.
We talked around metastasized memories
and treatment theories from previous occasions
spent with hospital bands around wrists
and rotations of others in the circle.
We nervously told pornographic jokes.
One of which keyed a lock in Gale’s mental closet
and the memory delivered a first round, one punch
knock out that ended the session.
For participation we were awarded
blue bubble gum cigars,
which lead to Groucho imitations
from the oldest of us.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney