the measure of loss

The bedsides are padded, barred.
All these wires that connect – they only stretch so far.
Why I am a prisoner to machines.
They reassure the officiants in their uniformed whites –
blips, beats, waves.
A psychiatrist at 1.11 p.m. tries precise measure of mind.
She is groomed, perfumed – so perfect and controlled –
her superiority merely accidental, coincidental.
“You’ve done so very well despite…”
How she patronizes, speaks in cheap platitudes.
You have lost your faith.
You have been let down.
“It must be isolating…”
Yes. I trace the root origin –
Once I trusted, rested secure;
me stupid, a cow grazing in my private field of daisies.
Imagine such shock.
That grey wet October day – loud, broad avenues.
Hey, now we can be friends and say
maybe our love was illusory anyway; I’ll drink to that.
How I fought, kicked and razed,
held fast to my beliefs because I believed.
Nothing here is worth my time.
Time is idle, idle time.
Press hard the accelerator – pedal to the metal,
shift-kick quick and fly; at such speeds I travel,
never looking in the rear-view mirror.
I out-speed a sharp grief before the pointed hooks can catch.
Should I drive by you in the gutter I will not stop.
You are not even someone that I used to know