when they let him out the man walked down the street and
everything
was pretty much how he thought it would be
but maybe that was just him.
once in awhile he checked the news
the ink on his fingers the same old annoyance
but jiminy cricket,
he was in a land of white white white
and one day
the sheet under his hand and not plush at all mind you
more like a marble slab and so there was that to think of
and no way to roll to his preferred sleeping side. more than once
if he let his mind:
evidently, hell.
until he found the thumbprint thunderstorm on the white where
his hand rested
his own perfect storm
he pressed his finger onto the sheet
then spread his fingers into a wave
hello to the top sheet
and the girl who came in every day
the girl from one of those places where they round everyone up
and kill them
who had obviously and miraculously escaped
but did not ask her because he no longer spoke
thus the newspapers she brought
and a small white cup
with a small white pill
which made no sense even to him.
did they want him to read or sleep
the next time the doctor came in he said hello editor
(no joking in hell evidently)
so they stopped the cup.
the girl still brought the papers and one day
made a sound when she saw
Big Thumb Daddy making waves
a nice inky row he had been working on
since the sports section
a sound his mother had made when he had done something,
maybe broken a thing she had loved
or forgotten to wipe his shoes
and wagged her finger.
a universal and emphatic No No
like a priest talking to god moving his hand
back and forth
parting the waters
up and down
a paperboy spreading the news
when the wrong person died.
