Clinic Poem by Leslie Philibert

Fogs of ghosts carry souls in buckets.
With steps in dance and many hands

they polish your armour and
hammer you back together.

They throw you out of glass rooms,
back to your old door, you fruitcake
you mad hatter, you looney,

back to the grey street,
you have long enough babbled
at a ring of empty chairs.

You spin too slowly not to tip over,
your cranium scrubbed,
your bones trepanned,
your new smile fixed with wire.