Hospitalized

Rooming with a
300 pound
Schizophrenic named John
who reads
Spiro Agnew
He says “I'm getting Better”
I say “Really, Whatta they
give you for being
a republican these days,
Shock therapy?”
He doesn’t find it as funny as I do.
Every morning
it’s 14 pills
To make me
Like you
And I don’t
Like you
it’s
Pills for
Everything
Seems like
Pills to sleep
To eat
To wake
To talk
Dream
Breath
Walking the halls
Like a zombie
Bumping
Into things
Placating
Those that
Call from home
“I’m fine, getting better”
As I run my tongue over
The roof of my mouth
Where the sighting bead
On the shotgun
Left grooves
Therapy
In big happy groups
6 times a day
“We should all be happy”
Some therapist dressed
In plaid, or yellow, always plaid
Or yellow, telling us to be happy
That life isn’t shit
He makes
A 100 plus a year
Goes home and
Fucks his wife every night
Plays with his kids
I listen to a schitzo named john
Talk about commies
And hippies and
The towel heads
But I don’t get angry
No one gets angry
We all want to go home
We say what we have to
What they want to hear
No one wants to hurt themselves
Or anyone else
Except john (he’d like to bust a few towel heads)
Like being in jail, parole board
24/7
We don’t get shoe laces, knives, pens,
Belts, etc
We’re dangerous
A poet, a mother, a doctor,
A grandfather, a deaf hairdresser, a 300 lb
Republican,
Don’t give us any shoe laces you
Bastards
We’ll take over the world
Oh well
I wear boots
Anyway.