Not the official ones, who have been
Diagnosed and made tidy. They are
The better sort of patient.
They know the answers to the difficult
Questions on the admission sheet
About religion, next of kin, sex.
They know the rules. The printed ones
In the Guide for Patients, about why we prefer
No smoking, the correct postal address;
Also the real ones, like the precise quota
Of servility each doctor expects,
When to have fits, and where to die.
These are not true patients. They know
Their way around, they present the right
Symptoms. But what can be done for us,
The undiagnosed? What drugs
Will help our Matron, whose cats are
Her old black husband and her young black son?
Who will prescribe for our nurses, fatally
Addicted to idleness and tea? What therapy
Will relieve our Psychiatrist of his lust
For young slim girls, who prudently
Pretend to his excitement, though age
Has freckled his hands and his breath smells old?
There is no cure for us. O, if only
We could cherish our bizarre behaviour
With accurate clinical pity. But there are no
Notes to chart our journey, no one
Has even stamped CONFIDENTIAL or Not to be
Taken out of the hospital on our lives.
eLetters
No eLetters have been published for this article.