On Madness

 

Is he mad now?

We’ve seen him talking

To his one remaining dog;

Then watching to see

If she misses Ginger

As much as he;

Which anyone should know,

And abandoning his books

For tablets without print

Or sense then scribbling

In them. The rain

Is falling again

So he makes tears

Of it and listens

Intently with pen poised

As though there were

Someone out there

For him in the darkness

With dank wet fur

Ready to lead him away

Whenever he would choose.