A Power Saner Than Myself

It was late one night. I was sitting home on the edge of my bed and into my room flew a red macaw that landed on my shoulder. “You shot the sheriff,” it squawked in my ear. “You shot the sheriff!” As soon as it came, it flew away. But I knew the cops were after me and told my therapist that the next day. The next thing you know, I was being carted off to the psych ward for the tenth time in my three and a half years sober, due to my schizophrenia and bipolar illness.