Norm Poem by Percy Dovetonsils

Norm's gone off his meds
and off his head
and will be imprisoned
in assisted care
or worse
for the rest of his days.

I'm to fly to fetch him
from one asylum
and take him
to another.

We doubt
if his writing
will ever make sense
again.

Norm, invoke one last muse.
If you
invoke the Muse of Marbles
ask for yours back.

Invoke the Muse
of Rockers, Norm,
for you're off
yours.

You tell me
Warren Buffett's son
visited you
and is 'quite nice.'

Why shouldn't he be nice,
Normie?
He'll never miss a meal.

You say you've
met
a shrink
who wants you
dead.
I don't
doubt it.
Maybe I have,
too.

Norm, you've been
my voice of sanity
for forty years.
If you can possibly
put your hands
on yours,
if you can remember
where you set it down,
take it up,
seize it again,
Normie.
Tie it to your wrists
like mittens.

You may feel fine
without it.
But I need it.
My hands are cold,
Normie.
Cold.