January 1984

All my writing in the garbage can,
Deodorant sent from someone else’s mother,
Christmas gifts from strangers.

Packing to leave the psych ward
For a mental hospital in Westchester
Where, they’ll say, an old woman,
Heir to Gilded Age money,
Spends her last days.

I imagine she has a whole floor to herself,
Muffled and dark with thick carpets,
While below her,
Removed from the current of life,
We try to convince them
That we are fine
And the world is wrong.

mossnleavesnsnow

Emerald and snow

rocksnmoss

The way in.

2 thoughts on “January 1984

  1. Nice with the juxtaposition of the heiress against the less lofty victims of a world that doesn’t know how to accommodate itself to differences. The last stanza is really well done — the images, the line breaks, the choice of words. Nice. The first stanza threw me for a bit, but I do like the “Deodorant sent from someone else’s mother.” There’s a story being suggested with that line, just enough to know what the story is about, without knowing (or needing to know) what that story is.

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