A Fenced-In Life
I made a sentence
at the job appoint
ment. It was an
assignment, like a
task. I made a note
of it. The note was
flat, very off-key.
But I could type
so fast it meant
something to man
agement. Who held
a check in the air as
the breeze blew it.
I was sentenced to
a prison, poisoned
in it. A cubicle to
cry in. Cold meat
for a keyboard. A
supervisor with a
mirror for a window.
This was the dream
I had before the in
ternment. I meant
interview. Cool swings
swaying in the syc
amore shade. The
shady sway of the
swing beneath the
sycamore tree. As
a child I’d swing on
a tire under an elm
and graduated soon
to the swingset which
blew beneath the. I
was ill, I was sick, I
was swaying and the
leaves were turning
rusty and leaving.
It was cold, I blew
my nose. We built
a fence around the
swingset and I would
call it home, call it
cubicle. I learned
to dance the bossa
nova under the syc
amore tree after
the fence went up
and the swing went
down. I was the
boss of each of my
relentless dreams.
