He is pretzeled into himself.
The man’s canvas cap gives
a lazy salute as his parachute pants
wrinkle into the acute angle
of his knees
and hips.
His nubbed spine presses
onto the metal wire bedframe,
his thick-booted feet askew.
He contemplates the bareness
of the wooden barracks— contemplates how
military men, like children,
leave at the school-day’s end:
joyful,
saturated with knowledge that drips
like sweat on
a veined brow.
But he knows the room contains
silent wisdom—upon particles of dust
rests Alexandria and her Deweyan understanding.
So he sits like an upended
turtle and mimics the air around him
in hopes a dust mote will
bless his forehead.
The room does not reciprocate
it’s guest’s sentiments.
It is ready for his departure;
Cement walls bare, with inset windows like
cataracted eyes stare stark blind
to the undefined outside.
Mattress curled up like the man,
with downy legs doubling up to its head,
resists use.
A too-full sack hunches upon
hardwood floor; it envies its shadow
creeping towards the door.
And a lanky locker waits like a guard,
its forehead vent-lined in frustration,
willing the man to leave
with its steely demeanor
and bright metal hand clenched
in burnished threat.
The man disturbs the sight
of specks on light
with his eyelashes fanning goodbye.
He is a vegetable dreaming;
the room’s pantomimed pleading
slides past the corner
of his eye.
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