the iron fence between us

as kids
we would take the bus up
to the Atlantic movie
theater
for a three flick matinee,
all day.
and then afterwards
we'd wander further up
south capitol street
to St. Elizabeth's.
the asylum, red stoned
and surrounded by an iron
fence, a guarded gate.
it's where they kept
ezra pound, the poet at
once upon time, and other
distinguished souls.
we'd see the men and women
wandering about, disheveled
and lost
in their own clothes. talking
to themselves, or the sky,
or to trees.
men in suits, women in
their summer dresses, hair
done. shoes, neat and clean
as if their minds were fine.
but they weren't.
we looked in at wonder
at this strange island
of the mentally ill.
our hands curled on the iron
bars that separated us
from them. there was
no laughing, no pointing.
we said little to one another,
taking it all in, but were
deeply affected by what
we saw.
so when my mother was checked
in, I knew what it was,
where she would be.
I prayed it wasn't going
to be her end.