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Psych
Ward Love Poem Evan
Miller My nights are filled
with the coughs, moans and groans Of men who have
nowhere else to go. They come through the
gate just as the sun is setting. Sloppily they stumble
in. Their eyes bloodshot,
faces stained, They breathe booze
and broken bottles. They have replaced
the electricity running through my walls. Gone is the daily
drag of solitary confinement, pills and inkblots. Men in white once
roamed the halls, Escorting tormented
patients in the midst of screams, Dismissed by a
diagnosis. That was before the
ivy took over my windows. Before the windows
served as target practice for teenagers. The type who run away
from detentions. My neglected front
door hangs open. An invitation
rejected. So I spend my days
nestled between two hills, Listening to the
wind. My eye scanning for
my visitor. She maneuvers her way
through the front gate, Now blocked with a
miserable, rusted, chain-linked fence. Her camera bag hangs
by her side, Rich brown hair
draped over both her shoulders. Her eyes do so much
more than just see, Evaluate,
discriminate, and find. Her own lens. Her face shows an
optimism few can find, When faced with my
haunting, my urban-legend. My urban-legend does
not appear fulfilled. She stops outside of
A Wing this time, Walking around eyeing
the contrast of hard, red brick, With the soft, newly
formed ivy. She snaps a photo and
gazes deep into the tiny screen. Yes, this is what it
looks like to be forgotten. Next, a broken light
bulb socket on the ceiling of the front entrance entices. She stands directly
underneath the old socket, Paint chips from the
once clean, freshly painted ceiling accompany her feet, Like snow forgetting
its purpose in the shine of summer sun. She captures another
image with a twinkle in her eye. In the main hallway,
her slow, Delicate footsteps
crunch the chipped black and white tiling. I feel embarrassed
when she crinkles her nose, Offended by the odor
that my night dwellers leave behind. She peeks into
several rooms but chooses A18. She eyes the broken
window, The metal bars to
keep the boundary. The rays of sunshine
drift in And occupy their seat
in the broken three-legged chair Left to lean against
the shredded padding of the wall. Her curious dimples
make me want to say, “You know, this is
the room where Dylan Weidt tried to…” But I can’t even
get this much out. She’s had enough. On her way out, she
is preoccupied once more by her small camera screen. I settle down to be
warmed by the burning up of the sun over the cresting hill in the
distance. At times, she looks
at me differently than anyone else. And at times she sees
the same things as everyone else. She’ll never take
me with her.
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