Rehab (Poetry)

They’ve given me a bedsit —
clean and cheap and small —
a box I barely fit in
with a button on the wall

to push if there’s a panic —
an emergency, or some
crisis — ’though I’m doubtful
they’d risk their necks to come.

Life in the institution
ran like an oiled machine —
for years my days were governed
by unvarying routine

but now I have no schedule —
no framework, and the clock
measures out the silence
as elastic hours mock.

I’ve nothing to get up for
the world I used to know
is lost and I’m an outcast
with nowhere else to go.

I stay in bed and listen
for the knock upon my door —
they’re visiting less often
than they did. I’m pretty sure

they imagine I’m exploring —
maybe strolling through the park
when I’m here, in soiled pyjamas
lying in the curtained dark

and wishing I was back there
with window bars and all —
I’d rather take the beating
than the button on the wall.