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Green Tree Lodge
The name is ironic, I think, as I crunch down
The snow. Crunch—crunch. Treading snow.
Probably treading leaves under snow.
Treading leaves. Crunch.
The walls are purple. Disconcerting.
There are other people. They disconcert me.
These other people, they are not well.
The linoleum is grey,
Grey like the light outside
And the thoughts within.
The doctor sees me. I talk.
It is the same sordid story
And does not bear repeating here.
He asks me questions. I respond.
The answers do not bear repeating here.
I sink into my plastic chair. I am tired.
The air was cold on the way up the hill.
And I forget to take my inhaler.
My chest clutches at my heart.
My heart clutches at my mind—
The brittle shards of my mind.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
