Simon Riley

(THIS IS NOT MINE!)

Simon digs his back into
the door frame of the office, as if
tries to grow through it.
Eyes - narrow slits, mouth
twisted in a grin. Palm with
hits the table with all his might,
making the can jump
with cotton swabs.

-Papers. Right now. Sign that I'm healthy.
like a bull, and I'm off. Understood, little doctor?

His shoulder twitches in
microspasm when
a physical therapist takes a step
forward. Simon jumps back to
the wall, as if he had been electrocuted,
heels slam against the baseboard.

• Fuck! Get your hands off me!
  a hoarse roar breaks out,
  compressed - as if from
  traps.

He swallowed the lump in his throat,
trying to look fierce. So
sides of this, probably,
it resembled a drunk's dance
bear - huge
special forces soldier jumping from
touch of air
ball.
But fragments of thoughts flash through my head:
father's sweaty palms,
snapping belt; prison
camera in Mexico where strangers
fingers rummaged in his wounds.
A lump tightens in my throat.

"Not now, damn it. Not
Now. "
The thought beats in his head.
The brain is feverishly thinking:

"Fucking jackals... They appointed
massage... Yes, I'm more of a nail
I'll swallow it!

He pretends to correct it
jacket sleeve, hiding the trembling in
fingers. Everything inside me clenched in
ice ball:

• Just touch it and your hands will
  will go in the trash. Along with the bones.

Externally, he's a mountain of muscles.
rage. From the inside -
a boy huddled in a corner
a barn that smells cheap
whiskey and pain.