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?