Seems I’m not alone at being alone
A hundred billion castaways
Looking for a home. ~ The Police
I dug through the drywall first
careful scratches with my fingernails,
slow going. All the time, writing.
So proud when I reached the end
only to discover plaster and wire lath.
I have no tools, but my intention
is strong and true, so I look for the seams,
pausing at mealtimes to sip
my fairytale gruel. At times a poem
is slipped under my bowl,
scrawled in a perfect circle;
this is how I keep my edge
tedious uncovering of the walls
that entrap me. And how can I express
my anguish when I finally pull
all the crumbling material down
— all the while scribbling —
to find I’m living in a cage?
I slam and shake in fury and fear
and only result in shining my
metal enclosure. The poems are
piling up now, higher and higher
until finally one flutters out,
called by a person in need
of my exact words. And I see
that I, too, can slip out
with my newfound flexibility.
I land on your shore a great snowy
egret, stalking on my skinny black
legs. Watch my sinuous quiver
beak to tail right before I seize
a wriggling minnow and swallow it:
ask what nourishes you.
And I open my angel wings
pure white fluttering
how we can rise up
I circle the lake once,
twice, for emphasis. Follow me,
my poem flickering in your heart
embers long after I’ve gone
back to my cage, waiting
for the next listening ear.
Inspired by the dversepoets prompt to write a spec fiction poem.