Thirty years later, I can’t
forgive you.
Lawyer, you call yourself. I call you
Shyster, you who defended our son
against us, our only wish to have him
in hospital, in treatment for hallucinations,
for voices which terrified him.
You lost the case, but our loss was greater,
ordered by the judge to pay your fee,
our son told he had the right to a public
defender, not told his parents
would have to pay the bill. My bowels
writhe to think of the injustice, our family
already cursed by schizophrenia,
already in debt to doctors and hospitals,
already stigmatized as poor parents.
You were just doing your job, you say.
But that’s not what this is about.
What I cannot forgive you for
is your hip and breezy manner,
accosting us in the parking lot to tell us
secrets you gleaned from our sick son,
your unbounded glee at the sordid tale.
