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W.M. Tidmarsh

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Passing the Asylum

I look ahead in case I see a face
From one of the grey windows sadly peering
Or someone capering on the ordered grass
Screams an obscene truth meant for my hearing.

I count the leaves that dribble from the trees,
Avoid the flagstone crags, guess the distance
Between the telegraph poles, but none of these
Stratagems prevents the sidelong glance.

My dog selects a tree, cocks a leg high;
I’m forced to stop.  An inmate seeing me
Says, ‘That’s a nice dog, before I came here I
Had one like that.  He used to stop to pee
On that very trunk.  Couldn’t let him roam,
Never knew where he’d end up, still don’t know.
Poor little bugger, used to call him Joe.
What’s your dog’s name?’

‘I call him Rex’, and, ‘Come on, Rex!’ he said,
The dog strained on his leash and raised his head.
‘Just like my dog he is, could be his brother.
Be funny, really, if you had my dog’s brother.
Anyway, can’t stand chatting here all day;
I’ve things to do and you’ll want to be on your way’.

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