Al Zymer

Big brown boots on  big white feet,
clomping down the busy street.
People stopping, people staring.
Why do they care what I'm wearing?

Rough hands grabbing, I'm confused.
Shouting, swearing – not amused.
Sensibility has gone.
The boots are all that I've got on!

“Quickly, get him off the street.
Wrap him in this orange sheet.
He's cold and wet, in all this rain.
Poor old lad, he's gone insane.”

Back to nursing-home I'm trundled.
Wrapped in foil and roughly bundled,
in a cot, where here I lie
Wishing I knew – how to die.

5/3/13

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