Weeping, Whispering

The book banned from Ward Seven, the Bible,
declared you had both father and mother,
although Bobby bogged down in Exodus
with all its tabernacle tapestry,
cheating thereafter to find all the parts
that spurred his restless imagination.

Donald J. Bonnington M.D. et al.
to verify he is a doctor / shrink
takes long strides and sees him three times a week,
more if there’s a need. Then group therapy
Mondays and Fridays, where the petite wife
with her wrists bandaged, the young boxer crazed
by hoopla predicting a great career
unbegun, the two teenagers in love
with "The Hollow Men" but they haven’t read
"Heart of Darkness," where "Mistah Kurtz" came from.
Nine more so-called souls: a baker’s dozen.
Why did Cathleen go to bed with her boss,
the married baker who kept his socks on?
Bonnington listened, said Hello, Goodbye,
and recommended what to do, between.
He painted weekends, had read Thomas Wolfe,
though the only writer he really knew,
Tom Mooney, a doctor in the Far East,
was dead, beloved therefore immortal.
Bobby St. Clair confessed his many sins.

I tire of this imitation of Christ.
I drew my mother to resurrect her.
I looked for the words to bring her to life.
Is my father in Hell waiting for me?
I could neither swim nor walk on water.
How may I heal such flaws and find true speech?

(3 February 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander