Classic Poem

What appear to be
peach-white, over-washed pajamas

in the washed-out newspaper photo

on one side droop
like a monk"s hood,

the upper half of that leg
raised with the other, whole one
and the hands

they"re there!

and the less washed-out
pink balloon above them that they reach for or have
just let go

— the latter probably as one hand, palm up,
is wide of it,

two-thirds of a laughing mouth

visible, the wheelchair in this case,
its sparkle stark against

the flannel and plied living limbs within it,

a tool of fun. Such wisdom"s possible
here only, the ability to feel

glad to be alive

gone on the outside,
the " cloistered incarceration " of the ward

holding the boys

as if they were a group of monks.
Asked by a visitor

what it"s like to live secluded

most of the time,
mute and with forced labor,

a chronic lack of sleep for all the praying,

the Benedictine monk
asked back:

" Have you ever been in love? "