there is something in the soup at this crazy house,
or we could probably figure some way out
instead we whine, laugh, weep just to keep
the crazy house moving
like medicine we never ask for and symbolic breaks
that bent too far for the comfort
of family and friends
or maybe we only got in
because the ratio of making bad choices
was up this year or the annual head count had dropped
below national funding
and these fellow fruitcakes seem
no different than the man who brought me in
who could only understand restraint
the way he kicked
against no resistance
or the girl at the front desk annoyed
at finding a bed space
when her boyfriend had just scored
pills by the hand full or my friend Ben
who lost his job and shot his dog
but had nobody to blog his insanity
they all stay home like couch cushions
sinking before the tv's monotone
caught up in the phone and offering
crazy house scenarios that seem
to fall down flat
because any of them out there
could be soup in the vat