They say it's a hospital,
But I know better.
Visitors, holding carnation bouquets,
Wear brightly colored T-shirts, casual khaki shorts,
But their eyes are all glazed hard with worry,
Their smiles are just brightly painted plastic.
The front desk attendants are chatty and careless, talking
About Sunday plans.
They call it a hospital,
But I know better.
He is calm now. The medications tape his pallid
One-hundred-and-fifty-three-pound body together. They
Kindly allow him to speak, but
Not to hear. They allow him to maintain his wild delusions,
But not to listen to us.
They say it's a hospital,
But I know better.
He looks at my mother and says:
"I had twin puppies yesterday.
They took them away from me, though.
They put them in a place where only Marines could go.
And I tried to go there, but
They caught me. Isn't it nice that
They allow me to have visitors in jail?"
The photographs around him try to create a chorus
Of the familiar.
But they just depress me more. Who wants to remember
That this man was once a gardener, father, husband?
The nurses
Alone can admire the photograph of his beautiful white
Country house.
"Fiona," he mumbles at my four-year-old sister,
As she pulls herself closer to my mother's leg.
"Fiona, what a beautiful name for a beautiful child."
They call it saving a man's life,
But I know better.
-Renata Silberblatt
YOU ARE READING
Chicken Soup For The Soul- Redone
PoetryI'm not sure how many of you, if any, have ever read or even heard of the chicken soup for the soul book series. I used to love reading them and I own several of them. With that being said, I am making a collection of all my favorite poems that I've...
