No sooner do I pass the Barking Man
in stilted walk but silent for a change,
with darting downward glances, gray and tan
unlovable, than Helmet Head’s in range
before me, hauling at his corduroys
too low, his pace too slow. I will not pass;
I think I’ll turn away without a noise,
but then he stops and kneels beside the grass.

By some my town is called the open ward,
but others shake their heads and seem confused.
You have to turn off senses to get bored
around my home, where everything’s excused
that doesn’t harm, where craziness is free,
and only Off-her-Meds is irking me.