4 January, Nipper bottle

It’s another routine morning walk through

factory streets.  Last night’s light snow is

melting, uncovering litter along curbs and

hedges:  a cigar wrapper, a rolled-up lottery

ticket, the ubiquitous McDonalds cup and

a whisky nipper bottle. Try as I might, can’t

keep my mind on the day ahead and my to-do

list.  It strays as always, this time run off the rails

by the nipper bottle – back to Lino shouting

I’m still here into the sliding plate-glass window

in the waiting room if spotting me in the mental

health clinic’s “inner sanctum”.  It was a private

joke between us, said with a pinch of sarcasm

and bravura (a pinch of fondness, too, maybe?)

meant to flip my dire prediction on its head –

untimely death. It was a scare tactic for Lino

to defy.  He showed up monthly for his Prolixin

shot, a “chemical straitjacket” to quiet the hectoring

voices in his head, and he’d already discovered

that other shots, vodka in a volume continuous,

offered an added muffling to the noises echoing

in his brain, at times even making him feel

“normal”.  As I head back toward East Main, I’m

wondering what ever happened to Lino, if there

might be someone out there who cares enough,

to whom he can wryly say I’m still here. I hope so.