Julie Allyn Johnson
solo mecca

punk-green-haired nurse
neon leggings, practical shoes
gently murmurs
here. this should calm your nerves.
she holds my hand, strokes my palm.
lets me cry until i feel a little stronger.

dr fong — who i later learn
will lose his medical license,
sexual assault, no less —
performs the inducement
courtesy of the $200
the boy delivered last night,
a mumbled good luck
on his way out the door.

behind plum-colored curtains,
i wonder if it’s the weekend yet,
my mind a muffled tangle.

i wait.
for what, i don’t know.
seconds, minutes — an hour?
12 centuries
of slow acceleration.

it’s quiet here.
not sure what is expected of me...

i dress, gather my things,
leave unnoticed.
make my way
to where i’d parked the car,
drive off in a haze, a blur,
an unsettling,
pull into Kum & Go
two jangly hours
from big city’s metropolis
before i resume
my pilgrimage
to a resurrected life.