Lain within these walls is buried a plain and hollowed canvas
that someone has made art reflecting
a childish seaman’s dream.
There are twenty seven spotlights mounted
to this artificial sky.
Alternating glares and shadows mock
the waning wax of dusted floors,
and the tiles are laid cut.
Black tracks forming horizontal lines
and the double pointed arrow paths of a wizard’s waltz.
A boy sits in the corner.
His fingertips chant to the pulling of strings,
each beat etched in prisoner’s chalk
along the reception counter.
A music pours from hidden places.
Bodies and faces wobbling along like windup toys
forever set in chaotic miss-direction.
I sit in space,
sandwiched between water-stained carpets and asymmetrical table lamps.
I carve these leaded words in paper
each line tangled and matted in the rough texture of that boy’s hair
as it refuses to sway to the dysfunctional air conditioner’s hum.
Stagnated by silence we become clay puppets,
smiling at that which shields us from the sun.