The doors grow wings and fly
their handles out of grasp.
Windows refuse, and you,
on hands and knees, search
inch by inch and corner to corner,
examining entrails of an escape that isn’t--
an augurist looking for signs
that never were, nor will be,
forever and ever. Amen—
Truly it shall be so.
You hate the Truly
more than the room,
so you sit on haunches and suck
the convenient route,
the bottled television path,
chewing down clocks
until bed where you destroy
restless hours in contemptible tossings.
Somehow you forgot
it was Easter Sunday.
good one.
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