There you pine, jailed in your ribcage.
Little plastic army men keeping you at bay.
Turnstiles click, at each year’s passing.
Shiny chalk pieces marking the days.
Fingers grasping a flimsy metal tray rim.
Every season reduced to gruel on a spoon.
Creamed corn, potato, cherries jubilee.
The warden’s face is so familiar.
Sulking in your pitiful hot spring.
You a shiny cipher, hiding the solution.
A dangling wind chime, stuffed mute with cotton.
Every window scraped clean but painted shut.
Lounging on hands, gazing across your life’s field.
And the hungry wolves you leave to tending your sheep.