Continuum of Care
Pen clicks mark time
in a unit where no one gets
to leave. This purgatory; sins
never really purged, impossible.
No sin for a sick mind can heal
with glassed ice, crunch munch
in their cheeks, squirrelling away
water for another sunlight drought,
trying to remember what it felt like
to walk barefoot on glossy grass.
I ask: How long have you been here?
She says: Back when I had a tan.