Archive
11/19/08 - (1)
Oil Slick
One morning, you discovered your will to be was depleted, Drained, like your ten-year-old electric razor, Which, every other day or so, needed to be recharged.
You suffered a pervasive lethargy, Which bathed your spirit in a pessimistic oil slick That choked all psychic life swimming below its surface.
Somehow, barely (literally as well as metaphorically), You were able to coax your body to work. Once you got there, the bankers couldn't stop staring.
Nude, you weren't who they thought you were, All the dutiful years of your unimpeachable, selfless service, Rather a Mr. Hyde gone as close to postal as possible,
Without initiating a homicidal rampage. Yet if looks could kill, you (not they), at their hands, Would be riddled with bullets — dead meat.
It didn't take the guys in the white suits, Brandishing manacles, straitjacket, butterfly nets, Ten minutes to arrive, five more to blanket your flesh,
Haul you off, in a maniacally flashing padded-cell minivan, Deposit you at St. Sebastian's Toxic-Abuse Care Unit. For three days, the shrinks subjected you to blood tests,
Urine and stool samples, barium x-rays, CAT scans. At the conclusion of your ten-day stay, you were released, As state law required, for involuntary admissions.
All the test results came in shockingly negative: Drugs — no; alcohol — no; bipolar — no; schizophrenia — no; Disposition — rosy, cooperative; social — gregarious.
Once home, however, lethargy's oil slick resumed spreading. Next morning, when you arrived at work, au naturel, The bankers applauded you, for your clean bill of health.
11/19/08 - (1)
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