This is a poem about being in the psych ward in 1974 after attempting suicide.

In the Solarium

There were a lot of windows
in the solarium,
on the top floor of the hospital.
And all the people from the Ward
were forced to take their meals there.
Unless you were really really sick.
I didn't have to the first day,
but after that they made me.
I didn't want to go at first.
I didn't think I was ready.

In the solarium
there was the lady with the darting
little spastic bird moves,
fluttering over her tray.
There were the ones who couldn't talk,
except with their eyes
which said things I couldn't tell you.
There were the depressed and drying out,
with no appetites.
And the ones fresh from electrode land
with a pinched look,
red faced with headaches.
And the sweet old lady who read palms
and skipped rope and sang songs
and told me I looked like the Apostle Paul.
She called me that.

And there was the fat guy, my age,
who shared my room
and woke up in the night and roamed the halls,
talking loudly.
He used to steal my cookies while I was asleep.
One night I heard the nurses chase him down,
three or four of them,
and wrestle him into the room and onto the bed
and give him a shot.
Later, I overheard them in the hall.
"Massive dose of tranquilizers"
and "hyperactive schizophrenic."
He told a lot of lies.

You couldn't do much of anything,
except in the solarium.
You couldn't smoke, or do anything
but lie and read.
And that got boring.
They wouldn't let us have matches
or belts for our bathrobes.

They gave us little pills every night
in the solarium.
They called our names
and we went up to the window
and collected our pills
in a little paper cup.

One time my wife came to visit me,
and she wore a sexy dress,
with thigh high stockings underneath.
She let me look and see.
We were in my room alone.
I kissed her,
and felt beneath her dress
and nearly burst with longing.
But they made us leave the doors open
during visiting hours.
So that was all we did.

In the evenings
in the solarium
I played canasta with the nurses.
We smoked a lot of cigarettes
and played for matchsticks.
All the nurses carried matches,
even the ones who didn't smoke.
We had to ask them for lights.
They were nice.
We laughed and joked.
Almost like everything was normal.

Finally they let me go.
Right back out in that scary world.
No more canasta.
No more solarium.
No more stolen cookies.
No more pills in little paper cups.
I walked out
and started down that long road
to Damascus.