Electroconvulsive Therapy

I spy exits and contemplate escape,  
as my wheelchair wends its way  
from ICU to the Fifth Floor.  

Three squares a day,  
served on trays that bear my name  
(a name ostensibly Top Secret).  
 
I share painful memories with other imperfect strangers.  
Just part of the game I play  
to win my release.    
 
Soon, fate lets freedom evanesce.  
So it's "plastic sporks” redux,  
while doctors search for vital signs that I'm okay.  
 
After good-time served, I am paroled.  
My ride waits for my emergence,  
through doors which remind: “Elopement Risk."  
 
I am betrayed again,  
by intrusive thoughts and ideations.  
Foretold by McMurphy's Law, fantods feather this cuckoo's nest.  
 
 Yet, there's no percentage in this slow attrition.  
So I go "All In" for the Gold Standard Treatment.  
"Absolute Nuts" for ECT.  
 
I don't recall a thing.  
Anesthesia and paralytics work their magic.  
My sock-less toes tell the tale to an expectant team.  
 
Three months of remission.  
Ninety days of questioned hope.  
then, my life unravels one tremor at a time.  
 
I simply cannot cry.  
It came back slowly,  
but it still came back.