Crazy Mary

standing in line for mail at the homeless shelter downtown get a stamp…or two? letters that fill her hand she’s writing to the FBI writing to the CIA the DEA perhaps the NSA wonder what she wrote? some days she tells of shadow people who plot and scheme she hides from ghosts and their attacks they track her she hides inside a dream or more accurately, constant nightmare. she talks to people in the air rambled words furtive glances she listens what are the words that are being said but then who cares no one knows those words just Crazy Mary.

Request permission to use this poem

Explore

Hello PoetryVoting

Write