A
Poem of Epic Scale which I've Attempted a Dozen Times Before and
Failed
Miserably
By
Steven Miller
-for Rachel Molander
The
walls in there were white, just like in the films,
but so are
walls in most new, apartment buildings.
I shared a room with two
people far less
crazy than me and one far crazier.
I couldn't
write. I couldn't read.
An angel, as natural and lovely
as any
starfish, came each evening at 6
o'clock and this alone I thought
happily
of between her departure and the tranquilizers'
arrival;
she more therapeutic than any chemical.
Mostly, nothing happened,
unlike any film.
I watched a lot of music television,
and
played ping-pong in the morning coffee rush.
It was decaf; they
trusted us like children—
not at all. Mostly, I ate meals
that
were better than I'd expected, asked about
shrinks who
were largely absent, and managed to
escape (all right, I was
released) prematurely.
Steven
Miller is a poet and fiction writer. His poetry has appeared in Lit
Rag #17, and Touchstone
Literary Journal. His
journalism and creative nonfiction has appeared in Touchstone
Literary Journal,
Statements Magazine,
and The Manhattan Mercury.
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