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Medical Humanities


Benji Perin

January 14, 2015


Mr. K pulled his palms from his forehead, looked up from his lap. 
Toothless and confused, he responded:

“Family? Nawh. My family . . . 
said they don’t want nothing to do with me,” 
and they meant it.

They were the last thing that kept him fixed;
he’s been rolling, loose, ever since.
Like a bolt slipped from the fingertips of a factory engineer
falls silently, cursed (damn!) as it careens from reach, 

‘till bouncing madly off fine-tuned gears,
tumbling in twist-flips, 
in arcs of unrest
then sliding, 
spinning ‘cross polished steel
it suddenly lodges, strangely still

in this locked unit, this safe recess, 
psych floor number 7, West.

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