The meth monkeys
are piloting the spaceship again.
Suddenly, it occurs to me
that I can see every sick pet
and every heartsick owner
within the walls of Angell Memorial.
I can see cages, donated towels
with threadbare patches,
and worry lines etched into
foreheads. I see hands twisting
in laps and abandoned aged
magazines, crinkled ads
for flea collars.
It’s too much to absorb
so I cross the street
even though my destination
is on the same side
as Angell Memorial.
I can’t turn it off; the meth monkeys
have full control of the in-flight
entertainment this morning.
I have to let the film play to the end,
to reach its icky conclusion
before I can slump, weepy
and exhausted, on my therapist’s
couch and tell him how much
sleep I’m getting or not getting,
if I’m doing everything he tells
me to do, steadfastly avoiding
talk of this morning’s movie madness.
Because that’s crazy, right?