by Nick Pipitone
I give them my belt
ancient, white-haired women who look like washerwomen of Celtic myth, who start fights and cackle and perhaps know they’ll never leave;
heavyset bald men who bemoan that we put people on the moon but can’t cure mental illness;
muscular young men with anger in their eyes, who develop psych-ward romances and hate the world for what it’s done to them.
They follow me when I leave.
It’s a secret I keep to myself.
I take my meds,
not dogmatic bullshit about enlightenment,
Copyright © 2021 by Nick Pipitone