Not One of Them

We are told our new patient
Is a psychopath
Having brutally murdered three women
With no remorse
Only intent
And plenty of that

Dangerous… given to sudden, unprovoked
Outbursts of rage and violence
Thinking his behavior is justified
Because he is responsible for Universal Judgment
Was born for the unique purpose
Of eliminating evil from the world

He stands by the Day Room window, holding an apple
At a spot where he can best see
The high curled wire of the security fence
And the yellow orb of the moon
Peeking between the limbs
Of a weeping willow

The firm red skin pops against the pressure of his teeth
Juice bursting forth, sweet and pure
Rolling over his parched tongue
Takes a second and a third bite, quickly
As a starving man would
The fruit making walnut-sized balls in the pockets of his cheeks

He is mindful to keep his lips
Tightly closed while he chews
Takes pride in the fact that he remembers his manners
Even in a place such as this
Where others come
Because they are insane


Anyone can see that they are
With their wild eyes, uncombed hair
Rumpled clothes and their
Rambling, nonsensical talk
But soon everyone will know
That he is not one of them

He is better and smarter
He never slumps about, but stands with his back
Straight like a rod of iron
Is able to point his toes at exactly ten till two
On the Universal Clock
Can stand for centuries this way; for what is time to God?

He raises the apple core high in his hand
Like a trophy before the masses
It is he alone who knows
That only this apple
(Out of all the ones in the basket)
Has the Secret of Life hidden within it

He smiles then at the Knowledge of Knowing
That this secret is now in him
Feels its hot power bursting in his belly
Coursing through his veins
Surging through him with every beat of his heart until
He feels that familiar throbbing in his temples

Because he has been given the Knowledge of Knowing
He understands that to keep his secret safe
He must stand completely still with core held high
For twenty-seven and a half minutes
Of Universal Time
And speak to no one

So at three in the morning
He is content to stand with his bare feet on the cold linoleum floor
Watching the yellow orb of the moon move across the thin limbs of the willow
Secure in knowing the Secret is his alone
And all of them will soon see
He is not one of them.



Joy Arnett