The moon, deranged and full of jazz,
blows a hornless riff
down the long chamber of cells
where bars fling linear shadows

across a concrete floor.
One cell stands open,
confusing the pattern

with rude hatching,
plaid on stripes in grey on grey.

A procession of silhouettes
pauses at a door
at the end of the corridor,
at the end of the line.

Inside, a gurney and machine,
a sleepless pillow,
vials and tubes.

He is pale as the moon,
strapped to the gurney,

vialed and tubed.