I was handcuffed by Broward County
officers, loaded in the back seat
like luggage, closed inside. The plastic
felt like the bed of a truck with a hollow
for my cuffed hands. Plexiglass.
Guns on hips. They talked about dinner
plans and partner banter, while my mask
fogged my glasses and I sobbed in silence.
Admissions to Imperial Point was a large
room, eight reclining chairs. A shot of
Ativan felt like a flu shot. A shot of Hell dog,
and I woke on a plastic, springless mattress
perched on a plastic bolted bed.
Breakfast at 8am. First group at 9am.
Bolted tables and weighted chairs.
Twigs of pencils, no chocolate, hard
backs contraband. All quiet save
Meth Head Santa banging on
the window to the south ward with his
toothless mouth pressed against the glass.
“I’ve gotta get to work!” Hell dog
didn’t win that fight. Hours where
I laid in bed staring out my triple
paned windows at the Miami skyline.
I stared, studied, slowed my breathing,
let my mind sift out the large thoughts,
devour them, and sit in empty silence.
Caroline was quiet. Resigned. Lonely.
Roll over, let the clattering settle, stare
at the bolted bedside table, the shared
bathroom, the door that couldn’t close.
Still not Baker Acted.