detritus
for jeff maser
i obsess over missing mail packages,
refresh the tracking page 100 times a day,
wondering, where is it? how’d it get lost?
jersey city is only 45 minutes from denville,
why didn’t they call me up?
“yeah, uhh, hi, mr. bakelas?”
“yes that’s me”
“listen this is duncan over at the jersey city
distribution center, we got those books you
bought from jeff maser, why don’t you swing
on down and pick ‘em up? you just mention
ole duncan’s name and you’ll get ‘em in a jiffy!”
“shit man, that’s great i’m on my way”
but that’s not how it happens,
that’s never how it happens
the books travel to an unknown dimension,
through regions not yet discovered in new jersey,
before arriving into my hands 10 to 15 days late
and when i tear open the package and hold the
books in my hands, i can hear all the duncans
of the world shouting: “just be thankful it even
arrived!”
and i’ll sit down with my new books,
look at them, stack them with the rest,
walk away, and leave them for another day
there are six towers
in the psych hospital:
A, B, D, E, F, G—
and they cut the power
in the A/B towers to clean air ducts
and clean up an HVAC leak that left
my ward smelling like burnt diesel.
i am displaced as are my patients.
it is pandemonium and pure chaos.
there is no direction and no plan.
i find refuge in an empty ward.
it is brief and does not last.
periodically i check in on my patients.
one guy talks to himself about figs.
“i’ve got a thing for figs” he tells me.
“oh yeah? you got a thing for figs?”
“i got a fig fork, i got a fig thing.”
twelve seconds later he looks
at the medical doctor and asks
“do you wanna fight, homo?”
“be cool man,” i tell him, “be cool.”
“i’m cool, i’m cool, just don’t
take my fucking figs.”
it is only 10:12am.
there are 5 hours
and 48 minutes to go.
tomorrow the power
will be cut again.
maybe i’ll just call out.
we went for a
walk
bees kept
chasing us
it was my fault
i wore that
cologne you like
i just wanted
to smell nice
but the bees,
the goddamn bees
thought i was a
flower
“i’m not a
flower” i shouted
but they kept
being bees and buzzing
and they followed
us
all the way
home,
and now i know
they weren’t
bees
but actually
cicada killers
and they fucked
up
my lawn with
their
digging and
burrowing
and now they
live there
and i don’t
wear
that cologne
anymore
so they mostly
leave me
alone
Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. He is the author of 19 chapbooks and several collections of poetry, including “The Ants Crawl In Circles” (Whiskey City Press, 2022). He runs Between Shadows Press.
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