In the Asylum

 

That was Joe,

the thumping,

the pumping,

the pacing,

the punching,

and that final scream.

 

I know it’s Joe

because he does this to all his neighbors

at each high midnight,

where drugs wear off

and insomniacs scream for sleep

to return to their deserted heads,

while nurses too tired to care

don headphones

laced with Neil Diamond

and Phil Collins.

 

We’re all Joe.

We rotate,

and on some nights,

multiply.

 

But that Joe’s still screaming,

sleep shot with an elephant gun,

and I hear it all

through termite-hollowed floors

and ceiling amplifiers.

 

Collective or individual,

we transmit our sickness:

Joe passes it to Joe,

Joe passes it to Joe

Joe passes it to me,

and I pass it to Joe.

 

Each of us pull the trigger

on our neighbors’

sleepy-eyed angels and sandmen,

while Neil Diamond and Phil Collins

serenade nurses with lullabies

behind bulletproof glass

until the next shift comes to wake them.