Hospital

Dear Albert Schweitzer and his harem of pygmy women,

I’ve never considered myself lucky. In fact the opposite. Never won a prize in a lottery. Never married or fathered a child. I have a few friends but don’t see them often. I tried to promote music and poetry to a wider audience but never made any money. Today however I was reflecting that sometimes luck isn’t equated to love or money, or success. I remembered five years ago being taken to a mental hospital and I appealed. My case was reviewed by ten doctors in a large room. They said that I was depressed and I replied that I was a writer and led a depressing life. They told me that if I was a writer, to recite them a poem. I was unaware that it was reported that I might be dangerous and a threat to the community. I recited an allegorical poem about how I gave up a life of violence to become an artist. I could have chosen to recite any number of poems but I chose that one and was released from the hospital the next day. Recently I was admitted into a hospital suffering from burns caused by a cooking accident. The ambulance officer said that I had a mental illness and the admissions clerk did not check my wounds and I was allocated a place far down in the queue. I was in great pain and a nurse walking past saw me grimacing and complained to the clerk. She administered me morphine. Nothing can take away the pain of a lonely life. For a while my burns stopped hurting. Luck sometimes comes in many forms and always when you least expect it.

With respect
from the captain who sailed
out to sea on a ship made from hope.