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Still wet from the rain
I sat across the psychologist’s desk
cluttered with files, pictures of smiling grandchildren on summer days.
Brick walls lined with text books, fancy lamps,
and golf magazines.
His hair gray and slicked back, glasses and a tie.
“So when is the last time you used narcotics?” He asked.
“Almost four years.”
“What do you do to stay sober?”
“I don’t do drugs.”
“How about your support system? Do you attend NA meetings?”
“Not anymore. I surround myself with good people
but most of all I write. Writing is my therapy.” I told him.
“Writing isn’t good enough therapy. According to these charts,
you don’t even register. The worst addicts are here,
and you are two points higher.”
He pointed to somewhere above the chart.
“But I haven’t used in almost four years.”
“It doesn’t matter. You have a disease.
You are only in remission.”
His eyelids shook like bat wings.
“I don’t want to use though. My life is great right now.”
“It doesn’t matter. You will use again
if you don’t get into a support system.”
“I should’ve lied,” I told him.
“This test picks up lies too.”
He never looked me in the eye like men are taught.
I could tell he never tried drugs,even in the sixties.
Everything he knew
he learned from the textbooks on his walls,
obtaining degrees that are devoid of human emotion.
He never sold his golf clubs for one more hit.
“I’m placing you in an outpatient program.”
My voice rose and my face beat red like one of his lamps,
“I have been sober for almost four years. Don’t tell me what my life is like!”
“I’ve detected your anger since you got here.
I’m going to recommend an anger management class too.”
I took the paperwork from him and walked out
back into the rain.
Later that night I had a poetry reading
with a few poets from the MFA program at Colorado State.
They read their poems about rocks and trees, slowly,
no emotion, just big words, poetry exercises they all did in class.
They clapped in their sport coat sleeves for each other.
When I got up there I read my poems
about human beings, mostly me. They crossed their legs
and watched me
like I was some homeless man that
came in from the rain. My tattoos
and track marks didn’t impress them.
My poem’s not enough meter.
I walked off stage to silence
and sat in the back with Ashley
and listened to another poem about clouds.
I smiled, satisfied
I never learned anything from a textbook.
- jason “juice” hardung
