Wait Mister. Which way is home? <br />They turned the light out <br />and the dark is moving in the corner. <br />There are no sign posts in this room, <br />four ladies, over eighty, <br />in diapers every one of them. <br />La la la, Oh music swims back to me <br />and I can feel the tune they played <br />the night they left me <br />in this private institution on a hill. <br /> <br />Imagine it. A radio playing <br />and everyone here was crazy. <br />I liked it and danced in a circle. <br />Music pours over the sense <br />and in a funny way <br />music sees more than I. <br />I mean it remembers better; <br />remembers the first night here. <br />It was the strangled cold of November; <br />even the stars were strapped in the sky <br />and that moon too bright <br />forking through the bars to stick me <br />with a singing in the head. <br />I have forgotten all the rest. <br /> <br />They lock me in this chair at eight a.m. <br />and there are no signs to tell the way, <br />just the radio beating to itself <br />and the song that remembers <br />more than I. Oh, la la la, <br />this music swims back to me. <br />The night I came I danced a circle <br />and was not afraid. <br />Mister?<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/music-swims-back-to-me/
