during his therapy session,
while each were sharing,
respectively, what they felt
was their higher purpose in life…
Jerry spoke up
undeterred by his own rudeness
in cutting off a fellow confessor’s
heart-wrenching story
of loss and liquid lament,
mid-sentence
Jerry spouted out,
with a strangely calm resolve,
I think that I was meant to do a lot of cocaine.
it was peculiar that he raised his hand,
since he clearly wasn’t willing to wait even one more second;
he’d started speaking, before his arm had even reached
full extension
there was, after that…
a noticeably uncomfortable
five or so seconds of…
silence
numb jaws,
flushed faces
perplexed looks
Jerry continued
I believe in the perfect perfection of God’s Will.
Nothing has ever occurred
that was not originally
of God’s intent.
Furthermore,
and here, he smiled broadly,
clearly pleased with his own, peculiar, thought process
God is nothing at all
like people have assumed.
God is like a reliable toaster
and He always pops out perfectly toasted bread.
I do a lot of cocaine.
And so I conclude that
I was meant to do a lot of cocaine.
Because, if it wasn’t God’s will,
then God wouldn’t allow it.
God wants me to do a lot of coke.
It’s part of the divine plan.
quite a bit more…
silence
those in attendance checked in,
with the inside of themselves,
that yes, they were indeed awake
and not just dreaming
in their beds
the woman sitting beside Jerry
felt her tongue
growing heavy and thick
the usually quite reliable and familiar-feeling
muscle in her mouth
now plummeting down into new,
strange unfamiliarity,
functioning as little more than a
old, motel carpet with a bad, floral pattern;
lying in the way of her breathing,
collecting fuzz and dirt and hair
from the boots and flip-flops of loud, annoying vacationers
and conventioneers from Indiana, police conferences
one throat cleared…
this sound was a decidedly clear signal, as if the
all-clear flare had just been fired up into the newly interesting air,
signaling to the combat-weary troops that they could,
once again, raise their heads out of the tired trenches
a solitary cigarette ash fell onto a designer shoe knockoff
one, older man shifted angrily in his wobbly chair
and managed to slosh a bit of coffee
on his brand new, polo shirt
several others nervously sipped their own coffees and sodas
while others sat in amazement
and some in a giddy but hushed, chuckling amusement
Tom, the group’s bemused leader arched forward in his chair,
placed his elbows on his knees
with an unusual force,
trying to anchor his anger
and remain diplomatic, despite the outburst against order
and after releasing his clenched jaw,
he somehow allowed himself to say
Thank you for sharing, Jerry.
Anyone else have anything…
anything…
at all?
Copyright 2020
Kevin Trent Boswell
From the new book, Next
Now available, on Amazon
Kevin Trent Boswell 