ECT would’ve been your treatment

of choice, behind the façade

of a white-columned house

commandeered for industrial purpose;

an unrevealing, metallic

moth-rattle around a bulb

ripped of its vivid pattern.

No coloured lights for you, sister,

but a locomotive thunder that

dampens the strain of a polka.

Those fingernails would need regular

trimming . You’ve always depended

upon the kindness of strangers.