St Ann’s

Her Victorian austerity’s

maddening enough without walls thick

with voices that get inside our heads

as you lead us, frightened, to your room.

Pilled till you have the moon’s gravity,

you’re unfazed as we orbit and stare

at the surface of your cratered face,

at your tic’s exhausting violence.

No one here’s really mad, you tell us –

it’s these squeaky beds that drive you nuts.

Even on drugs you’re hysterical.

It’s crazy that they’ve put you in here.

We promise to watch you till your folks

get back; sign for you, like a parcel.

Talk like coming to take you away

might just put an end to this madness.