The Doctor, Part 17

The comb smoothing through the mirror
I imagined
pushing my hairs straight,

the shaving cream colder on my skin,
I suck a mean, tough guy drag off a joint
thinking about
some stranger’s grandma
on a plane to Florida a few years ago
when she tried to sell me
her god shit
I told her
I’m sorry I don’t believe in god
smiling my smile
and she was sad
when she said I was going to hell,

I turn her
into my mortician
as I scrape the razor
over the straight bone on the left side of my jaw,
lean my head back a little
and ease the dragon smoke out my nose
into her face,
caterpillar plumes
swirling under her unbelieving eyes
and I tell them,
smiling my smile,
I put on
a shirt with buttons,
a crisp collar,
(I turn it up),
I tell
my coroner,
taxidermist, my mortician, my
somebody else’s grandma
I’m gonna be
just fine,
I’m gonna be
if my head is on a cold metal table
or high
in the upper flourishes
of anybody’s hell.

The entire The Doctor Series can be found here.