Waiting to be released from the ward, I play ping pong with Wesley. We are laughing, I keep missing the ball. I’m surprised at his patience with me. A social worker calls him away, when he returns he’s pale. I see him slide down against the wall, arms wrap around drawn-up knees. His head down, his shirt over his head. His bipolar features paranoia and he is already in mental lockdown. I go to him when my ride arrives, bend a bit, place my hand on his shoulder, and quietly tell him, “My ride’s here. I’m going to miss you. I feel like we were friends in another life.” I start to drop my hand down his arm before the inches between us grow into feet. As I get to his forearm, he grabs mine and holds on tight, just for a moment, just enough for goodbye. (Previously published in The Beautiful Space)
About the Poet:
Jeri Thompson lives and writes in Long Beach, Ca and has her degree from CSULB. She is in numerous publications, including; Chiron Review, The Fox Poetry Box, Carnival Lit Magazine, Silver Birch Press (Silver, Green, and Summer editions), Red Light Lit, and most recently Anti Heroin Chic.
something hauntingly sad and profound about humanity in this.
LikeLiked by 1 person