It used to stand for Department of Police,
Public Domain not private grief.
Now PD means incurable disease,
to my mind no less a crime than murder.
Not a death sentence, the neuro said,
fingering his black cap with due solemnity.
I could have cried when later on,
I saw him laughing in the café with a friend,
though his grin fell through his chin
on spotting me, so that,
if anything, I felt bad for him.
Yes, his face dropped like a murderer
through the trap, as I stood there
without guide book, without map,
unmanned, undone, uncomforted,
detached,
gazing on a city-scape of ruins.
[first posted 3 Dec 2013]
Another Way of Saying 
Yes, yes, excellent. Brave. Open.
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Thanks Maggie. Being more open is perhaps a good thing to come out of illness. It’s the role of poetry to communicate moments of truth whether in an overt or more implicit fashion. This one still hurts like hell when I read it so i guess it’s doing its job. Really appreciate and value your input!
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Yes, it has a very visceral emotional impact.
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Reblogged this on Another Way of Saying and commented:
Reblogging this to show solidarity with other PD bloggers – some brilliant artists and writers. This illness can be contained through art, attitude, activity. Be strong!
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