A ceiling inches from my face
Hides the kitchen and my rocker,
Collapsed into a tidy bundle.
I turn carefully, legs cramped from stillness.
Another month or two, then, perhaps I’ll be free.
Are they gone? Am I too late to save
Only those that I love?
Or will I save us all?
I jump to a conclusion.
Surely their boundless evil knows no limits;
Or am I their sole exploitation,
Plucked at least a thousand times
By names nameless to me?
Are we really led by frogs and stalwart toads,
Blinded by tattered fabric, kept sewn by the votary public?