IOP for You and Me

The IOP section of the hospital is an immediate labyrinth of lengthy hallways

expected fluorescent lighting and small alcoves for those being forced to calm the f* down.

Corridors of closed doors with circular secret push button locks

that I wished played musical notes when the 9 and 2 are pressed together.

In the larger waiting room, large hi-res glossy stock photo landscapes splinterless cedar piers extending into warm summer lakes and a sun still deciding if it is setting or rising

are bolted to the walls just in case-

precisely 32" on center where one might go throw a hissy fist. Cuz the male nurse ain't playing today.

Harold says, hi. Hi, I say to Harold. As I sit in polyurethane chairs that they could hose down if they wanted to.

Last week, during processing Harold didn't call out his sober days.

...

He usually waves that number like a parade flag.

And June is still watching everyone, a 70-something-year-old hoarder disorder who married a blind man 12 years younger and

has to keep the Goodwill avalanches from crashing down around him

He is always saying WHAT IS THIS?

and makes her memorize bible verses.

And Marco. His legs wrapped like tight spaghetti.

Who hasn't processed anything with anyone

yet.

And the girl named after her dead aunt mimicking TV characters as best she can to get through the week.

You can tell who is new by who looks you in the eyes. The new ones don't look.

They think I am the odd duck swimming alongside riding the bank.

I wonder what they tell in their small corners of the world- and if they shut the blinds when whispering.

Yet, no one blinks an eye.

And... I think about Elizabeth Bishop, the slush, and the cold outside.

(Freewrite w/ small edits -- 37 min.-- April 3rd, 2024)