A frayed crow pecks
at a catsup stained
fast food wrapper
under a car
in the parking lot
of the mental hospital.
When a crow pecks at nothing
he is just a crow.
When a man moves in circles
and repeats himself
and speaks to himself
at a busy intersection
he is mentally ill.
Crows scrape the stained asphalt
with their talons
like locked up people
clawing at the wall of their cells.
My aunt wore army fatigues
and tried to hijack a plane
so that she could fly away.
We had one visit at the ice cream parlor
supervised from outside the window
in case she tried to fly away again.
People from the outside
put their masks on
and enter with hope
that their visit might
tip their ill one into wellness.
If only she can see my love
then she will be well.
Inside these walls
suffering is hidden.
Behind these barriers
illness is believed to be fixed.
Inside these rooms
people stay sad.
Outside on the street
is the search for a fix or bit of food.
Inside or out
it does not matter.
Both are a wasteland.
Both are a waste of time.
The father’s love is not enough
to make his child well.
The mother’s love might help
but not when it is given too late.