The Rehab Group

The women are heavy and doleful

Still curling their bangs

And wearing pleated jeans.

Or the skinny ones with tight,

Unforgiving buns piled high and austere,

You’re not fooling anyone, sweetheart,

Squeezed into acid washed pants

Leering at everyone under several

Coats of midnight mascara.   

The men slumped in their chairs

Gripping their hands together

Slouching in defeat,

Outwitted, dimwitted,

Checkmate,

Mother fucker,

You’re done. 

But I try not to judge them.

On the Richter scale of trauma   

They score 7.5 on their good days.

I listen to their stories

And in my gut

I know

That this is life’s meanest

Selection

The thwarted cogs in humanity

Caught between the fucks

Of kin and fucks

Of sin.