This thing of me,
Born in curiosity to uncover
The walls of possibility,
The passageways to evade
Calamity out of how I’m made
And what I might do
In this zoo of never quite
What is right
And where to fit in a place
That boxes me with demands
Of what to do with my hands,
With a mind that could never find
Why I was so designed.
Many, many years ago
In Central Park in Manhattan
Where was captured in small cages,
Creatures out of Africa,
Penguins, bears, and walruses,
Each equipped to engage in jungles
Open seas, free air, and mountain tops,
The wondrous varieties this world offers
Creatures made for escapades,
Not cages in a zoo.
I remember one small cage in a corner
Where I stopped to engage a shaggy lion
Who quietly looked back at me with eyes
Large and brown and so very sad
In memories of fields and streams,
And dreams
Of places I could never know,
In a mind that silently, wondered why.
These days today in my old age
In a world torn in fear and rage,
I pace inside my small cage
Back and forth in memories before my capture
Into meaningless, away
From those long-gone days of open skies.
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