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Poem	The directions to the lunatic asylum were confusing, more likely they were the random associations and confused ramblings of a lunatic. We arrived three hours late for lunch and the lunatics were stacked up on their shelves, quite neatly, I might add, giving credit where credit is due. The orderlies were clearly very orderly, and they should receive all the credit that is their due. When I asked one of the doctors for a corkscrew he produced one without a moment's hesitation. And it was a corkscrew of the finest craftsmanship, very shiny and bright not unlike the doctor himself. "We'll be conducting our picnic under the great oak beginning in just a few minutes, and if you'd care to join us we'd be most honored. However, I understand you have your obligations and responsibilities, and if you would prefer to simply visit with us from time to time, between patients, our invitation is nothing if not flexible. And, we shan't be the least slighted or offended in any way if, due to your heavy load, we are altogether deprived of the pleasure of exchanging a few anecdotes, regarding the mentally ill, depraved, diseased, the purely knavish, you in your bughouse, if you'll pardon my vernacular, O yes, and we in our crackbrain daily rounds, there are so many gone potty everywhere we roam, not to mention in one's own home, dead moonstruck. Well, well, indeed we would have many notes to compare if you could find the time to join us after your injections." My invitation was spoken in the evenest tones, but midway though it I began to suspect I was addressing an imposter. I returned the corkscrew in a nonthreatening manner. What, for instance, I asked myself, would a doctor, a doctor of the mind, be doing with a cordscrew in his pocket? This was a very sick man, one might even say dangerous. I began moving away cautiously, never taking my eyes off of him. His right eyelid was twitching guiltily, or at least anxiously, and his smock flapping slightly in the wind. Several members of our party were mingling with the nurses down by the duck pond, and my grip on the situation was loosening, the planks in my picnic platform were rotting. I was thinking about the potato salad in an unstable environment. A weeping spell was about to overtake me. I was very close to howling and gnashing the gladiola. I noticed the great calm of the clouds overhead. And below, several nurses appeared to me in need of nursing. The psychopaths were stirring from their naps, I should say, their postprandial slumbers. They were lumbering through the pines like inordinately sad moose. Who could eat liverwurst at a time like this? But, then again, what's a picnic without pathos? Lacking a way home, I adjusted the flap in my head and duck-walked down to the pond and into the pond and began gliding around in circles, quacking, quacking like a scarf. Inside the belly of that image I began recycling like a sorry whim, sincerest regrets are always best.
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