Origin of a Scar

 Four years in, I felt I'd exhausted my chances 
in New York. Person after person, city after 
city, year after year, the indifference and 
timidity of America chewed up some part 
of my psyche and replaced it with a cautious disgust. 

Hence: California. I thought a citizen or 
celebrity out there would help me secure 
the secret fortune, grab this sorry bullshit 
by the throat and cut its throat. 

Well, two weeks in -- a length of time 
pitifully shorter than I'd like to admit -- 
my resolve withered to nothing. 

I went to the ocean for eternal rest. 
The somber night contrasted only 
by the outline of the country. 
Had nothing to my credit save 
two weeks of bodyrot and 
maybe a cigarette. 

I found a payphone and called an ambulance. 

They kept me overnight. (Refused me a shower.) 
I couldn't stay at the hospital because 
I didn't have state insurance or 
wasn't keen on medication or both. 

And here's where the action arrives: 

They put me in this waiting room, 
preparing my discharge; 
there was a kid in his twenties 
being picked up by his sister. 
He sounded whiny. I closed my 
eyes and waited for the papers to sign. 

Face exploding with pain and blood 
and this self-absorbed psychopath 
swinging a fist of dense bone, 
until a nostril tore, that rock wall 
of agony before they got the little 
shit off of me. 

They got me clean (my face anyway) stitched up, 
part-numb. They asked if I wanted to press charges, 
then said I couldn't because 
he had some sort of condition. 

I signed the papers, collected 
a prescription for sleeping pills. 
I was only in the hospital once more 
after that, though. 
Five years later, I'm a doctor 
with a patient of one. 

****