Ode

An Ode to The Trauma Saboteur 

 

A chair in the corner,

television flashing.

An infomercial is advertising

overpriced markers and getaways 

to the imaginary world.

I can tell you haven’t moved,

still in a nightgown, 

head wilted down sleeping,

snoring, narcotic frown drooping 

the corner of your lips.

I was a child who wanted

to be a child (whatever that means). 

 

The worst days were Sundays.

You popped a pill and praised

God to show you the way,

tears stain your face as you 

sob out, requesting the congregation

to pray over you.  

The prayers only lasted a day

before you were back to

relaxing (relapsing) on the chair,

yelling for a refill on your 

amber bottles.