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.