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The Poet Runs Over a CatTo Richard Jordan's next piece

Jesus In the Psych Ward
"My dad—he used to call me a pussy.
He liked to ram the message home, hard.
That's why I'm here," my roommate tells me,
not mentioning how he snorted Ritalin 
then stole the Holy Water from St. Jude's.
I press him about it and he confesses, 
"Sometimes I think I'm Jesus."
I try not to stare at the gashes on his forearms,
try to ignore the yeast infection on his tongue. 
Behind barred windows, we all ooze something,
so I concoct my own princely stories
and tell him lithium pacifies my Gandhi.
This makes both of us feel at ease.
Besides, I figure he could be the One.

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