Role-Playing at a mental ward

Alex, he hunches over. His chair, the center
Of this patient circle. His hands hide in pockets
Of his thermal jacket. It’s been weeks since winter.
The doctor—a deep voice rising from his soul, how God

Would sound if we heard him, a white beard on a giant—
Says, “Alex, role-play your father. Give us his name.”
“It’s Jerry.” The patient droops: he’s fixed on his boots; we're silent.
The doctor breathes in, looks up. “Let’s begin the game.
                   
Describe your son. Describe the relationship.”
Alex’s gone. Jerry enters. “Odd. At odds
With each other. I’ll explain. My wife told me what he did
After my hardened day of work. I’d allot

The proper discipline.” The doctor stares.
He says, “You knew what happened to Alex? Knew
The story? Knew your wife?” He grips the chair.
“She told me.” Jerry says. He looks confused.
     
“You had no idea.” The doctor replies. “No idea of her abuse."
Alex returns—a flushed and wrinkled face.
He wants to play his father again—to bruise.
But a gate busts open, swings, and light—a grace—                               

Now permeates this room. A warm and humble
Love, a comfort; our heavy, hissing sighs.
Our tears plummet; Mother stretches her arms; a wind rumbles;
And Alex, spent--yet eager--flutters his eyes.