Cold-blooded

The man in the Hyatt Regency lobby had shoes
with bruised toes, too-short denims.
Camel wool blazers and dry-cleaned jeans
stepped around him, following arguments,
The Patients Rights' Advocates made speeches in the Banquet Room.

From the garden of the Hyatt Regency
I followed the mental patient with the odd-looking cane.
His chin sagged below a protruding tongue.
His body wobbled to the left,
His task to continually correct his direction.

The man in the Hyatt Regency ballroom
made three clicks with his cane of assembled sticks,
interrupted tight faces crumbed with croissant.
The man waved his sticks over the delegates.
One stick was a teacher's pointer for repeat patients,
one, a long trembling limb beset by Parkinson's
one like a simple parson's cross held against the powers of darkness,
the last, Attila's sword. He looked like a killer.

The crowd turned from their parfaits,
held forks tight in their laps without plan.
The crowd shrank from the aisle
as he advanced, too close to those on the left,
an iatrogenic ugly bride
given by Uncle Sam to Medicaid.
The hand-made cane made the man
a tripod, the third leg straight, not veering.
His tongue tested the perimeters of chapped lips.


"My name is James Guy. See
how you have treated me? Look here.
I took your medications and advice.
You said you would make me feel safe.
Now I'm a chronic burden on your rolls, no more to be done.
I'm miserable and I want you to end my life.
How can you decide now
That it is not in my best interest to die?"

The moderator thanked Mr. James Guy for sharing
quickly brought the man a chair,
gave him a list of agencies by County.
They said it was not the proper time for public comment.
And Jimmy sat dry-mouthed in front of the delegates.
Before doctors and lawyers he slumped, folded his sticks.
Providers of mental health care relaxed.
They could keep an eye on the old man
who looked like a cold-blooded killer.
He would probably be more comfortable
if someone walked him elsewhere,
perhaps back to the Hyatt Regency garden.

There's a service that replaces
sad-looking flowers
with new ones every month.

from notes made 11/6/94 at the NARPA convention in San Diego.




by Bonnie Schell