Dr. Stephen Parks enjoyed attention.
He grew leaps and bounds
whenever his name was mentioned.
Bee-bopping amongst the people,
fake smiles flying; feeding his ego.
Dr. Stephen Parks liked to park his face
in places incognito, and lie a fool
whenever anyone questioned his M.O.
His modus operandi was to use
other families to make his own re-known.
Sleep with the moms, tickle their fancy.
Shower with gifts, take them dancing.
Treat their kids to chocolates,
fuzzy teddy bears on Valentines.
Love, Stephen Parks, fine and dandy.
But Doctor Parks kept dark secrets.
Information he would omit.
The clients can’t make informed choices
all because of this one small fact…
Dr. Stephen Parks was all an act.
He wasn’t a doctor at all.
He had no PhD.
He held no degrees,
except for separation.
He kept discussions in his pockets,
and other women in his lockets.
Deceit and trickery.
Foolish gains and fuckery.
Stephen Parks could spin quite the tale.
Until he haphazardly let the Queen Mary sail
off into the sea of light
where his lies were fleshed
for all the world to see.
Oh, that Queen Mary disembarked,
set on a voyage to torch the disguise
of one Doctor Stephen Parks,
who loved only himself.
She's the whole package
laying in the wreckage
of a half century landfill.
Do your will.
Do what you want.
Tell her what she wants to hear.
Tear her apart in the search
for whatever the fuck quenches
the thirst you suffer.
She'll do just fine.
Wine and dine.
Stuff her coffers with invisible coins.
She doesn't need 'em anyway.
She's the whole tattered package.
Testament to the old adage
of what does not kill us.
She is victor, victim, and witness.
Testimony of a thousand voices.
Picture show of a million choices
hidden in the shadows and crevices
of where you've never seen her go.
She's the whole damn package.
So sorry about your lies.
Those ungrateful hidden truths
that burn you.
So sorry you have to hide
just to feel loved.
That must really suck.
To be so close to someone,
only to have it blow up.
“We just do our thing, and if the kids go along, then great.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Two incomes and one house sure would be easier.”
“It would. Would you like that?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Did I ever tell you that I was in a movie?”
“Yeah, back to this plan…”
You kiss me.
You kiss me again.
You run your fingers through my hair.
“I’m in love with you.”
“That’s a good thing. I’m in love with you, too.”
I kiss you.
We stare into each other’s eyes.
Everything melts away.
“You know. You should know.”
“She adores you. She adores yours.”
“Ah, yes. Well, most kids do.”
“No. You need to know this. It’s important."
“It is. I need that. I need that love. I need your kids to love me.”
You needed it for a reason.
You needed it for a season.
Now that season has come to pass.
The leaves have left their branches.
You’ve moved on.
All I hear are crickets.
A grifter of affection.
Sweet, facade infection.
A stain on the family name.
A user of people.
Church AND steeple.
Collector at the pew.
Twisted pulpit stew.
A black box of messages.
Unlock the vestiges.
Shun the answers in light.
Redirection is his course,
veiled uncertainty his horse.
His mask a white knight
Questions asked -
I caught you.
Not coming home, you lied.
We're all adults here.
A full century between us.
"I need to back away" you said.
"To figure myself out" you said.
At fifty-two, what's left to figure out?
She's left her husband.
You stayed the night.
That sums things up, right?
There was a sickness in that man.
Not the kind any doctor or pills could fix.
This was the kind of sickness affixed
to his soul.
Like a devil’s hound digging up bones,
it would show itself briefly,
between the shadows.
Between the bellows of a hellfire
lay a quagmire of hopeful paladin clothing,
twisted and moaning,
draped over a frame of mind
he could not contain.
He longed for a wash,
a full-gutted cleaning
to escape the reaping
his sickness seemed to rain.
Running through the crow fields;
searching for a mother to bring
his children home,
he became the devil’s hound
digging up bones for another
mother’s babies to choke down.
There was a sickness in that man.
Oh, he had her.
Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.