January 1984

All my writing in the garbage can,
Deodorant from my friend’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.

Comments

2 responses to “January 1984”

  1. Bob Kester Avatar
    Bob Kester

    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.

    1. RobinCrow Avatar
      RobinCrow

      Thank you Bob. 🙂 Much appreciated.

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