'Does anyone know how to make <br />a bed without fitted sheets? , <br />the princess asked, <br />as she wafted down <br />into the eating room, <br />resplendent in brocaded gown, <br />satin slippers on her feet, <br />her hair so elegantly <br />coiffeured. <br /> <br />Our fuzzy minds wondered <br />if she was a picture n our heads, <br />or really one of us - <br />a patient on 5 East? <br /> <br />We couldn't help but glare at her, <br />conscious of our own unkempt, <br />ruffled hair, <br />our borrowed night gowns, <br />paper slippers on our feet. <br /> <br />Suddenly, she fainted dead away, <br />and it fell into the cream of wheat - <br />her crowning glory - a wig, <br />exposing a less than lovely head <br />slumped sideways on the table, <br />crushing a piece of Weston bread. <br /> <br />It seemed offensive, sad to me, <br />such dignity got plonked beside <br />a cup of tea at ten past eight. <br />it was a lesson learned, <br />for right away I saw the place <br />did not discriminiate; <br /> <br />We all shared <br />the knack of hiding things - <br />like common thieves.<br /><br />Philippa Lane<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/breakfast-on-a-psychiatric-ward/
