Wednesday afternoon

Blue and love, love in the insane asylum. I wrote a very good poem about the coor blue;it's buried somewhere in my blogspot. Blue eyes, all us Clayton kids. Suzanne Corry. She had blazing blue irish or scot or scot-irish eyes. My one grandfather was born in Glasgow, my great-grandmother and great grandfather were born in Ireland. Miss Corry strode, I mean she strode the corridors of the old Bellevue hospital, locking and unlocking ward doors for her assembled bunch of crazies. Blue blueeyes and long long legs. This was when NYC had money and a very liberal mayor. I started crying in music therapy--sometime during my first ever week--eyes afire she demanded to know what I was sobbing about.
"I lost my heart Miss Corry" I answered. That was all a Corry had to hear whether Scot or Irish or a combination of both. The day before I was sprung she and I and another patient went out in Manhattan. She took us to a small park with a waterfall. She had been listening for two weeks to my insane babble about farm life and about working the high steel. As we walked I saw a Chicago boom bring ing down a guy derrick.

"Look--Miss Corry look," I shouted they're bringing down the guy derrick!" Guy derricks are history in New York City. It's a self jumping derrick where the boom is stepped out and lifts the mast. Returning I stood while she sat. The bus too said nothing.

My second breakdown I was in a hospital 40 miles from Manhattan. But I called and looked for her. Enough. See ya tomorrow. The sky is still blue. But I left iron working.