Difference of Opinion

Black hood down over a screaming face

he left the ward and weaved into the day,

his trousers in threads; his mind, too,

searching for sense – anything – in the spring sun.

He crushed a tin and whistled, angry and happy

in the same incoherent sentence; fists up

to hit the enemy within his wild eyes.

The receptionist shook her head

her hand reaching for the panic button

It was too much for her; too much for him.

The nurses looked out, too, and they knew

he would be back: a body full of poison

he thought was good for his health.

There was, on that, a difference of opinion

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