by July 23, 2013 0 comments

When you don’t need it anymore,
when it’s imparted its last
gifts of manhood and of shame

When its hands cuff your neck
with a forest fire of remorse
and they march you off
quicker than a red fox vanishing

and you can barely glimpse
its sun-sequined back
too glossy for the moral eye –

Then, finally, there’s nothing left,
no one left to call
or shower with your gifts or laughter,
you’ve used them up
one by one
each of the many faces
you thought were yours forever.

So they buy you a trailer
and stick you inside,
the better to sleep away your princely dreams.
A dog twitching under a glass table
couldn’t resemble you more.

You rise up and stand on a box.
With your one good eye
you squint through the narrow window
at the grassy fields outside

and sing.

editors note:

Mind as prison or portico; one door shut, another opened. Yes, sing! – mh

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