Same as all of us, the mad are individuals and love a joke. Dark humour in anyone is a gleam of humanity, taking the mick helps survival however horrible the time one’s having.

Outpatients Seeing the Specialist

Shatterproof perspex
masks eyes nose mouth
of the guy who buzzes patients in and checks off names
like he's fish-tank encased:
if he let himself
be human he wouldn't work here among
buzzers locks scratched dulled
windshield protectors as if patients are dangerous lunatics
they aren't. It's there since some random
man pushed in smashed up the place
because he wanted to be a patient
it does look atmospheric
sunless, decrepit, very noir:
it's northfacing.
Nurses pretend it's adequate: it isn't. Nobody is cured
every patient seen secures more funding
explaining this
keeps hope burning and alive in both
patients and nurses
the psychiatrist's an oddball, bloodily
immovable like window trays of butchers' meat.
Most human beings in here
love cheek and wit love you getting it!

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