the tv offers cures for my
upsetstomach-indigestion-diarrhea
then happy people smiiiiiiling;
white, kindly men in white suits
mime actions over my stiff body
with metal things hanging off them;
the cupboard is a pretty sight,
It’s colorfully stacked with
Band-Aids, Tylenol, Advil, pink red white yellow pills –
for your heart? your liver? blood? swallow to your delight
(don’t swallow too much; that will be a mess).

so yes, yes, I get the point,
but can I get a Band-Aid for my heart?

“Where is the hospital for my soul?” I ask.
The nurses and doctors smile at me,
and point to a reclining couch beside a
lady armed with notepad and pen,
ready to dig out all the bad abnormal things
and scrub off the stains
and paint it lovely whitewash lovely whitewash,
oh don’t you just love lovely whitewash?

I turn around and see a sign:
“Hospital for Your Soul.“

I run toward it; oh I run.
I get there. Only a huge crowd waiting around the sign.
No building, no pills, no syringes. Nothing.
Then some other people start streaming in,
interspersing themselves like droplets of fresh rain;
They were just Joes and Teresas and Brendas and Kevins and such,
not clothed in White,
though they might’ve as well’ve been because
the people they touched glowed a light, earthly glow;
Heads hung a little less lower and backs were a little less hunched;
No instant $19.99 miracle,
just a touch of green to inspire blighted plants to grow, unfurl.

So these doctors in plain clothes moved on outwards,
walking into florist shops, in bus stands, in schools
fanning out into the world.

I was fascinated by them.
So I pulled some of them over to ask them
how they became who they are.
They told me: Why, someone touched me first.
They moved on, and I followed them.