Breakfast On A Psychiatric Ward - Poem by Philippa Lane
'Does anyone know how to make
a bed without fitted sheets? ,
the princess asked,
as she wafted down
into the eating room,
resplendent in brocaded gown,
satin slippers on her feet,
her hair so elegantly
Our fuzzy minds wondered
if she was a picture n our heads,
or really one of us -
a patient on 5 East?
We couldn't help but glare at her,
conscious of our own unkempt,
our borrowed night gowns,
paper slippers on our feet.
Suddenly, she fainted dead away,
and it fell into the cream of wheat -
her crowning glory - a wig,
exposing a less than lovely head
slumped sideways on the table,
crushing a piece of Weston bread.
It seemed offensive, sad to me,
such dignity got plonked beside
a cup of tea at ten past eight.
it was a lesson learned,
for right away I saw the place
did not discriminiate;
We all shared
the knack of hiding things -
like common thieves.
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