what day is it

as a child
you never visited your mother
at St. Elizabeth's.
her short stint after a seventh
child
sent her whirling.
they asked her questions
like who
the president was,
what was it?
you never saw
the tiled walls,
the murky corridors,
forever long the green
paint
everywhere.
but you remember walking
by years later,
when it was still home
for the lost,
and seeing the souls
in striped clothes, and robes
wandering
the wide pastures
behind the iron bars
in Washington.
you remember thinking how
close we are to
either side of madness.