Peter’s a schizophrenic,
but the doctors drain those voices
right out of his head
with the tip of a needle.
Lately he’s been listening
between stations
to a six-dollar transistor radio,
scribbling notes to himself,
while the four bare walls
of his room
gather together in anticipation.
Sometimes, when pressed for answers
with the threat of needles and padded bindings,
Peter crinkles up like a late-autumn leaf,
and, with a voice hardly his own, says:
“I just wanna go home.”
the lazy photographer 