P a t

My friend Pat has schizophrenia,

though he'll tell you he's just

crazy.

My friend Pat likes orange juice

without pulp,

and carries all his belongings

on his back

in a pack sack

my mom bought me

in 10th grade.

My friend Pat

has more bruises

than teeth

more cigarette butts in his pocket

than money.

He told me the angels don't talk to him

as much as they use to

anymore

and I believed him,

that they use to.

My friend Pat sleeps under a tree,

at Skeleton Park.

Sometimes I see people step over him,

as if he's just an inconveniently placed

pile of dog shit

and I wonder sometimes,

if that's how he feels

crawled up in his sleeping bag,

waiting for the angels

to speak to him again.

He came to church once,

but left early

because he was having a bad hair day.

He came to dinner

drunk

and read us poetry,

he unfolded from his back pocket

he found it

but there weren't really any words,

he read anyway

and I believed him

I believed the words were real

because he said they were.

My friend Pat,

he'd often speak of Marie

his old lover,

he hasn't seen in years.

I wait for Marie to come home,

wherever home may be,

and though some say she

isn't real,

I pray anyway

for her to come

quickly.

to prove them wrong.

My friend Pat,

he'd come by for a red-rose tea bag,

once a day,

and then another

just to wash his hands.

He'd tell us stories,

about his childhood

and leave abruptly,

after filling us in

on the latest conspiracy theory.

He'd keep his shoes on,

cause he claimed his shoes

were cleaner than his feet were.

He'd fall asleep in our couch,

in the middle of the afternoon,

and hide his books

under our barbie-Q.

My friend Pat,

once said he loved us

and I believed him

because I felt it

even though everyone just says he's crazy.