Rib’s cage

There you pine, jailed in that ribcage.
The little plastic army men are keeping you at bay.
Turnstiles click at each year’s passing.
Neon chalk pieces mark each day in the corner.
Three meals a day, fingers grasp a tray of flimsy brushed metal.
Each compartment filled with the same ladle of different gruel.
Creamed corn, sweet potato, cherries jubilee.
The warden’s face is very familiar.
you are soaking in his pitiful hot springs.
You are a shiny cipher, hiding your own solution.
A dangling wind chime, stuffed mute with cotton.
A picture window scratched deep by an angry diamond.
Lounging on your own hands as you sit on a porch swing.
Watching the hungry wolves tending to your sheep.

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Claire
10 years ago

j so glad to be back here in your space.

"Turnstiles click, at each year's passing"

i like the image this evokes.