Splitmind

A short fellow, a matted-beard man,
hair wild and eyes wilder, lapis blue
and darting here there, here there.
Lugging a guitar case or a bag
of aluminum, the black scissors
of his shadow clipping at his heels,
green socks or sockless, raincoat
or moth-eaten sweater, sleeves full
of mouths. Sometimes the violent
thrust of arms, hands slapping
wind, the invisible butterflies,
sometimes a head-jerk, a twitch
scurrying across his face like a roach
beneath the sheets. I’ve seen him
on the highway, on the off ramp,
flinching on 2nd, lamenting on 4th,
the liquor store across from where
I live, talking back to the buzzing
coke machine, one voice or more
riding the carousel of his brain.
Meds might help, a coin might
flip, beard clipped short and hair
disciplined by a comb, mind clear
as the heavens stretched from Kansas
to Montana. Instead he gets a head
he shakes like a snow globe,
blizzard after blizzard in the skull,
salvation of a miniature cabin
in the middle, three windows painted
yellow, front door missing a knob.