932. THE HOLY LAND CRUSTACEAN

THE HOLY LAND CRUSTACEAN
Five fingers to a glove, one wrist to a hand;
we make our meek allegiances...whatever
that old line was. I simply forget. Standing
by a rainy window, crusted with grime, the
old dirt tracks down the glass as I watch.
I feel like a feeble refugee, eating mashed
crackers in some mushy tea. The sort
of stuff they feed prisoners in a Gulag, in
shirts with no sleeves and beanie hats
fat atop their shaved heads.
-
If I ever had a woman, I'm sure - even
that long ago - that I'd remember. As it
is, this rat-infested cubicle with yellow light
and shit in the toilet has been my home,
prescribed by some sickening judge,
for six long years already. Sixteen
more to go, the paper said. I used
it, way back when, to wipe my ass.
-
I don't have the willpower to watch even
the sand slide down through the pinhole.
There's nothing on my wall to watch,
even if I'd ever wanted to. I wish
there was a woman to clean
my face.