Broken

No one is going to ask you outright. Good form abhors a straight line. Instead, they quietly wait for a day that no month will host. Perhaps it is hope that keeps them peeking. Their fear of jinxing my progress has given me a bit of daylight. Yet, I can feel the bubbling anticipation of some fumbling redemption ark. So I got senators from every state to sign my cast. For pure spectacle, I put my sling away to signify a speedy recovery. The Bishop of Canterbury pronounced a blessing over my starched gauze. Now my healing has taken on spiritual dimensions. The women make a fist as if to will me to health. Men recount harrowing tales of their past fractures to console me. There were at least two instances of signs hoisted with blue lettering which read, “14 days left.” I eat pungent greens in a splint taking great care to sleep on my good side. An hour of sunlight a day has not reversed my diagnosis. Meditation, daily quotes, pain pills, check-ups, lucky amulets, and it is still broken. When it is no longer possible to sell immaculate repair, I will break their hearts, and join our hospital beds together.