the morning I wake

I

she is too small to be a woman
but is neither child nor little person
shaved head, stubble of fro
I never understand what she is saying
what she is doing
stumbling around
the state hospital ward

II

the morning I wake
a different man
born again, as it were

plunged into terror the night before
the ward an ocean of panic
I breathed the broth of breakdown
it filled my lungs

but the sunrise brings the sublime

III

sitting in the day room
doubling as a dining room
I watch my fellow inmates
seated, as well
bent over, twiddling thumbs
or looking forward
in seeming indifference
all of us awaiting
the taking of vital signs

and I finally understand
with a new perspective
in a light I could never could have imagined
the vast contemplations
the patience, long-suffering and sacredness
of those I had judged for years

IV

and tiny Johnetta
comes fumbling up the hallway
falling over her robe
clutching now and again
the railing to the side

I greet her
finally having the gumption
to ask her what's wrong

she mumbles, through dry mouth
and congealed spittle
"the meds making me talk this way"
I nod assent, "you're so drugged
you can't walk straight?"

a smile lights her eyes
her face, she nods
gives me a hug
looks like she wants to give me a kiss

someone has heard her
but more amazing --
through thick ego and unfeeling
someone had the empathy to ask