A place for everything and everything in its place
I say to you on the subject of asylum inmates
Washing their hair with hand soap,
Driving by in our heated car on winter tires,
With a trunk full of tools, smelling of bleach.

“Where are we going?” I ask,
As a road bump rollicks our persons.
“A place…” you begin to say, knowing I’ll finish the rest.

The blurred landscape, the transition from place
To place makes me think of more things and places.
The poor in the streets for trusting the rich, served Right,
Denizens of New Orleans who live on the brink
The tools in the trunk, beginning to stink--

Part of me wants to see the truth before it’s too late,
And the other knows our destination.
For the tools trusted me, as I do you,
Yet there is no other place for me.