A Stranger in the Psych Ward

We make eye contact,
Breaking through a disconnect -
The fact that you’re a picture
And I the living aftermath.
It’s you I try to resurrect
Through eyes of twinkling bronze
And little fingers clenched.

You soak up shadows in summer sun
And lick the drops of ice cream left.
But it’s winter here.
And the sun is scarce.
It hesitates at foggy gates
Of window panes unkempt.
My hands are tightly wound and stressed -
Fingers coiled round a hospital dress.
Who are you, little girl immersed in blissfulness?
And how can you be in here
If you are not depressed?

I stare at you,
Trying to lick the beads of liquid
On my face
And taste ice cream -
To lap up the sweetness
That clings to your image
And grapple with the fact
That I’m more lifeless and condensed
Than a flattened picture   
Of a moment plucked from time -
Like shriveled plants pressed into paper -
lying stiff atop my desk.