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.