Six Thousand Seven Hundred And Forty Four Is Such A Sad Number Poem by Ted Sheridan

He is obsessive if not compulsive too...
He can't sleep because he has to clean his sheets
As he dirties them with just the slightest nap...
Compelled by voices unheard by you and me
He spends his days washing his hands and counting....
Always counting....#148 #197 #206 # 311
His life is a wasteland of bad sonnets and haikus
He is dying to escape but is afraid to touch
The doorknob of his two rooms one window flat....
His only salvation is a narrow from behind the glass view
To a life of which he can only write...and assign a number
God knows the assigned number of hairs on any man's head....
For Christ sake....forget I mentioned it! ! ! !