'ACTIVE TREATMENT'

The Overbrook, in ’17:

I logged my thoughts in rhyme.

“Obsessive manuscription”

doctors dubbed it at the time.

 

November snow lay thick on lawns,

the wards were thick with pain,

the day Ulysses joined us –

fit and active; deemed insane.

 

Restrained by three huge nurses,

yet unwilling to be cowed,

the massive new arrival heaved

and ran towards the crowd.

 

He bounced off beds and furniture.

He leapfrogged catatonics.

He dodged the syphilitics.

He cartwheeled past the chronics.

 

He shouted, “Woodrow Wilson’s lie!

Despair! A world obscene!”

Ulysses, trapped by heated staff,

succumbed to stabbed morphine.

 

As he sighed, his lips produced

a fleeting, misty form.

He cowered, moaned, and muttered,

“Please. One wraith begets a swarm.”

 

“You’re safe,” I soothed,

“in hospital. That’s just your clouded breath.”

Ulysses groaned, “I tell you, no.

Such spectres fashion death.”

 

He told me how we had to move

to halt these ghosts’ grim war:

“Athletic activation

should constrain this godless corps.”

​

Ulysses thrashed and pulled.

His shackles etched their tracks in skin.

As blood oozed over loosened bonds,

a white coat swaggered in.

 

The Overbrook’s director scowled,

and prodded his new case.

A second doctor joined him,

cool detachment on his face.

 

Ulysses squeezed my hand.

He murmured counter-cursing prayer.

The doctors talked about their plans

as if the man weren’t there.

 

My friend went unrestrained

for seven days of observation.

He vaulted desks, while staff stood back,

debating medication.

 

On Visit Day he raced outside,

and faced the biting gale.

He punched its swirling flakes:

a war with demons, doomed to fail.

 

That night, we sat together,

crouched near flagging steam and heat.

Staff were wrapped in blankets,

while we shared a ragged sheet.

 

Around us, no one slept.

Some huddled. Others hugged their knees.

The rattle-hiss in pipes soon died.

The boiler stopped. We’d freeze.

 

The Overbrook was overwhelmed.

One patient died each day.

Ulysses watched the frosted air

with passion and dismay.

 

Ulysses yelled, “We can’t stay still!”

and dashed across the room.

He grasped a wretch and danced around,

to exorcise his fume.

 

He held another’s withered arms,

and rubbed their pallid surface.

He chanted, “Spirits! Stay no more!”

to fuel his physic purpose.

 

My resolute companion

dragged each patient to his feet.

He set them in a circle,

and clapped hands to set a beat.

 

He demonstrated star-jumps.

He encouraged runs-in-place.

He helped them whirl like dervishes.

He planned a ward-wide race.

 

Ulysses steered a snaking line

through bunks, with tables, piled.

He hummed a tune and led a waltz.

He checked each face ... and smiled.

 

The death-rate dropped.

Ulysses calmly joked with melancholics.

He comforted and reassured

withdrawing alcoholics.

 

He told me, “No more wraiths.

They can’t exist when hearts are warmed.

Cold and isolation. Pride and wrath.

That’s how they’re formed.”

 

On Christmas Day, a dour white coat

marched in and looked around.

Steadfast, he declared

Ulysses’ mind remained unsound.

 

The Overbrook director

wouldn’t listen to my pleas.

He said my rhymed impressions

were a symptom of disease.

 

I swore Ulysses’ actions

kept us warm. He called them brawls –

and claimed a locomotive

furnished steam to heat the halls.

 

Conversing with the staff,

Ulysses lay in bed, composed ...

until the doctor entered

and explained what he’d proposed.

 

As he sighed, my friend produced

a fleeting, misty form.

He turned his face to mine

and warned, “One wraith begets a swarm.”

 

New Year’s snow lay thick on lawns,

the ward was thick with pain,

the day Ulysses left us –

to a world at war, insane.