Prisoners

He checks on me through the little window on the door,

Takes stock of the situation, sounds the alarm,

And suddenly the staff is moving as one.

They hold me down and strap me to the bed

As I thrash and kick through yet another epileptic fit,

My mouth obscured by sickly white foam.

An arm full of pinpricks.

A stomach full of pills and elixirs.

Eyes damn near blind from inkblots.

And when it is all over they wheel me into the dayroom

With all the other lost causes

To sit and stare at televisions or windows or simply thin air.

Birds fly overhead.

Fish navigate the waters below.

Both free of physical and chemical restraints.

I wash down the last of my pills with the last of my orange juice,

Fold my hand into my lap,

And wait patiently for the nurse to push me back to my room.