Suffering from the side-effects

of preventative medicine

far more than from

fear of the stroke it was meant to prevent,

I turned into Rumpelstiltskin-in-Reverse—

“YOU MEAN TO TELL ME

I SPUN ALL THAT GOLD INTO USEFUL STRAW

FOR THIS???”

—lost my temper

and hit myself.

Hard.

A lot.

If I could have pulled off a Stiltskin-the-First

and ripped myself in two,

I would have.

Honest.

I would have.

Tried.

Didn’t work.

Settled for hitting.

As things began to settle

back toward what passes for normal

when medicine isn’t involved,

I found myself wondering

how many

of those six concussions I’d had by age four

were inflicted by my own hands.

Later,

when the metaphorical dust had started to settle,

I remembered my friend David-the-Genius-Set-Designer

whose secret dream was to travel the world

turning theaters

back into barns 

but

who

opened a bike shop instead

and somehow I felt better.