That Crazy Boy

They said he went crazy in the lunchroom,
that boy in homespun green denim
with the curly hair.
He looks like a girl.
He talks funny.
He has a cockeyed stare.
He whacks off in the closet.
He shits his pants and sits in it.

All things they said about him,
that crazy boy
sent to the faraway desk
where he would not listen,
the corner
where he could not see,
the think room
where he thought of nothing,
the principal
who wanted him out of his office,
the nurse
who put him down for a nap,
the shrink
who only wanted money,
the mother
who screamed in his ear,
and the social worker
too busy to care.

He cries and squishes bananas.
He eats toothpaste wrapped in napkins,
pushes fingers in his eyes until they bleed,
hides in the curtains and talks to himself.
His words make no sense.

We know where he belongs.
So give him pills
to help him hear
and immediately obey,
to give him sight
yet see no more than what we show him,
to make him think
but not speak out,
to make him act
without action,
and quietly sleep
like a good boy.
Then send him back
through all he's been through.
Maybe then he'll change,
that crazy boy.