HOME FOR THE INCURABLES

How hard is it to get in?
Any of the old gang inside?
That you, Albert,
going from seven to what
on your toes?
And J.C., you up there
on the light,
it's hot as hell.
(the crazies have it bad)

Me, I can walk by, outside
and stalk the night, thinking
how can I get inside,
on a food van or linen truck?
Then whose mouth would I touch,
which bed tuck?

Madly, I grab the fence;
nerves break, ears ring sirens of pain,
yet no one stares, no one yells--
their space is not out here--
I sizzle in between.

© Fan Ogilvie
from the collection "YOU" selected poems and "KNOT: A LIFE"