Madness In Three Stages
 
Before the water towers cracked,
from the smoke room to the kitchen hatch
he dished out arbitrary justice.  
When his fists took too much liberty
the Charge Nurse and auxiliaries  
would take him behind doors for a dusting.
 
Our newer breed of nurse was bound
by codes to seek a middle ground,  
or safe restraints to pacify;  
they stung him with their well-placed jabs  
that made him feel a lesser chap
than if he bartered eye for eye.
 
Now he’s Samson at the hair salon  
and lacks insight of what has gone;  
so much the better for his blindness.  
Bedbound, he can but spit and bite  
until the Philistines contrive  
to kill him with the utmost kindness.

Raymond Miller


If you have any thoughts on this poem, Raymond Miller would be pleased to hear them.