The schizophrenic across the street,
plants her grey worn shoes sturdily in the gravel driveway.
She wraps a stone in the peel of a rotted Macintosh apple,
so the crisp air doesn’t fill its pores.
She religiously recites, “It’ll be okay, cold one, the apple’s organic coat will keep you warm.”
Her faded green hair falls over the peel that falls over the rock,
and she falls over a blanket of voices she can’t comprehend.
She shrieks, “I love this driveway, I love these shoes, I love this apple peel, and I love this rock!”
Then her frantic eyes open to watch a needle penetrate her skinny, fragile arm,
and she is wheeled away to a place where those thoughts aren’t allowed.