Wednesday, January 15, 2014

anchor

Staring at the wall.
Seeing faces.
They’re all here with me,
their names unknown.
     
It’s the little things
that one misses.

The doctor said
I’ll want to sleep off the side effects
for the first few days-
until my body adjusts; a short period of sedation.

I’ll sleep and stumble
for the next four to five days
of mind rebuilding oblivion

I keep one hand on the wall, an anchor, afraid I’ll float away.

I recall these same remedies
being sold for tens and twenties.

It was a free for all at every locker break.

A sixth grader had the round white ones with the split in the middle.
The seventh grader who had the pink football looking ones,
and the eighth grader with the powder blue triangles.

We were pre-teen monsters unaware 
of the hooks we were piercing ourselves with.
I crave the feeling of those hooks 
digging into a meddled consciousness.

There is a mystical calmness
to being brought to a place like this,
to sleep for a thousand years
in an eternal hibernation
poisoned-princess style.
The doctor tells fables
of functionality after the fact.
Pleasing tales of possible long term results
that are carried over after the tale is done.  

I want to go to the store and buy a toothbrush
walk the aisles aimlessly,
get a burger and a beer…

but the anchor is short… the length of my arm.