Reflections On a Nuthouse

INTERNS

I’ve sat in lysoled rooms
with interns
who had the gift
of my brain,
to dissect,
for free; starched, fresh, as white
as the Klan’s hood, they probed
with words painful
as a dentist’s little silver hook.
It didn’t matter to them
that my eyes were full
of jaundice, or fear, or hate
for them
and of them.
What was left of my mind wondered
how many of God’s little children
enjoyed getting whipped, maybe beaten
by bad dope, or worse, betrayed
by their lover who holds their heart
like an instrument of horror?
These young slugs. My God,
hospital sheets had more depth: they stretched across
age, drained sickness and blood
into their bodies, even laughed when a nurse
crawled in when nobody was looking.
What did those young docs care
if I missed my ice-cream hour;
or if my whore made money
with no one to give it to;
or I couldn’t bet the Knicks at home
getting a point over the Celtics?
I was trapped, and this was science,
pure, strict, shit.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969