this will not be a good poem

footfalls throughout the prison.
a distant siren.
getting overcast –
-there’s a new
art display,
some huge
black box
with boards
tapering
out of
the top
like a crown
or maybe
a cage
of shards.

A cage within a cage?
Perhaps.

I overhear
an old man
screaming into
his phone.

“It’s my fault, I didn’t realize he had a SYNDROME! I didn’t know he was SUBHUMAN!”

they sold the building off
and drove out
the engineers.

bumpy cadence of a rolling suitcase.

soon something
new
will
arrive,
but I’ll
have split
before then.

 

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