I'll buy a hatchet with this paycheck
and on my first Monday back
I'll take it out and split the forehead
of that prat who parrots phrases
from the shit he sees on TV,
see his eyes light up completely
for the first time in his life,
before they shut down for the night
and switch to mental QVC.
I'll pull the hatchet from his forehead
and I'll walk across the floor
while my fellow workers book it
(this is not what they're paid for)
until I find myself outside the room
with a poster by the door
proclaiming loudly END THE STIGMA,
acting like we're not the cause
of the very mental illness
which has brought me to the door
that my Team Leader locked the second
she heard screaming on the floor
but which, I know, is made of cheap wood,
and cannot, for long, endure
repeated impact from my hatchet
‘til its handle hangs ajar
from the door it used to open
and I know the look of horror
that stains her eyes on seeing me
is something new to her:
wish I could say it was for me,
but I'm glad. It's good to share.
No comments:
Post a Comment