a new friend

you hear the helicopters
above the tree line
searching for the madman
who escaped from the mental
hospital. he got loose
and ran in his blue
pajamas, a name and number
around his wrist.
how far could he run
in bare feet, looking like
this. hiding in the woods,
crawling through
the trenches until he
found a house with the door
open. you ask him, as
he sits there on your couch
if he'd like a cup of tea
perhaps a cinnamon roll,
surely he must he hungry.
being mad and on the run.
thank you, he says, thank you.
so what do you do, you ask
him politely, when not
incarcerated. not much,
he says. I'm misunderstood.
I write poetry.