On the Lessons of Pacing

You can take five steps    
if you know how to do it    
one-two-three-four    
pivot-on-five.    
     
Go back the other way    
pivot again    
the opposite way    
     
this time    
so the equilibrium    
there in your ears    
     
does not swirl  
and throw you into    
a world of vertigo.    
     
Keep going.    
Look out the tiny slit    
of frosted glass window    
     
so high up at six stories    
not even the shadow    
of a passing cloud is cast    
     
but once the beating shadow    
of a bird balancing omen    
on the outside ledge    
     
the shadows fluttering    
like the bird-god Tarkenesia    
playing a squeeze-box    
     
and you think    
how appropriate    
squeezed, squeezed within a box  
     
with no hot water    
but knowing ramen will soften    
in time    
     
even in cold water    
and on Thursdays    
the minimum-wage woman    
     
will come by with her cart
and brown paper sacks    
with commissary   
and visit a bit.    
     
She will be the one    
you will fantasize of    
someday being able to thank    
     
just for her kindness    
the how-you-doing-today    
MR D and this ain't forever you know.  
     
And how the clang of doors    
and the shuffle and squeak      
of Bob Barker clad feet    
     
moving by and the next-door cell   
sobbing during the night    
muffled so you know    
     
he wants no one to hear    
or see, the eyes peeking in    
to violate your privacy.    
     
And when    
it is finally late enough    
with nothing left but regret    
     
you pace again    
no clocks to tell you    
time to sleep, just darkness,    
     
just the body clock    
running down, springs relaxing    
from knots of anxiety    
     
and you think of Jesus    
and how he promised    
in the way of the prisoner,    
     
Yea, though you make up    
your bed in hell,    
even there I am with you, Big Dawg.    
     
Got your back.    
We can do this.  
  
Chinga su madre