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