There’s construction on the way to therapy
I detour my own way
Ignoring the glaring orange signs
I know better I think

Swerving in and out of neighborhoods
Not paying close enough attention
I’m keenly aware of bikers, animals and children in yards
I fear being the driver

I don’t know where I’m going but I end up at the office anyway
Twisting and turning until I just
Arrive

I tell her
I’m sorry but my thoughts won’t be linear
My brain is no longer working
Or at least not working like it was
Before things were logical,
linear
Straight
Frustratingly narrow
Packed up into wooden boxes
Splintering my hands when I try to move around

Now things are split open
Wrecked into a circle of pulp,
strips
sharp edges
disconnected

My thoughts roll out in many directions
Following things that are folded
Slinking
Out forward and backwards
And ultimately ending up back
Inwards

I know there’s no signs I can follow
I’m under construction
It will be a long time until
I see a freshly paved road
With a street and no bumps