There is one prisoner in jail, always
the same prisoner
yet no one is certain why he stays
for he doesn’t want to get out.
People have forgotten his face, forgotten
his name, and the emptiness
of the frozen jail cell is comfort
to a city so dependent on daffodils, pink lemonade, and Monday night tea parties,
there is one prisoner
no one is certain why he stays
locking himself away
swallowing the key
he basks in dirty cement walls
talks like a priest.
He calls me
Every Thursday afternoon at four sharp, and as I pick up the telephone
church choirs beg me not to,
but the telephone is shrill and rings louder than their pleas:
“Hello Father.”
But who does he worship? Who titles himself the bishop of emptiness?
The choirs fall silent as he speaks his Confessions
and the list is long, one after another, vaults shiver
his professing voice rattles the prison bars that trap my thumping heart
I rattle against them, shake and squirm,
but Confession goes on and Father is not pleased with what he’s done
and what he hasn’t done—
What hasn’t he done?
“The prison is a circle, like a church, to represent eternity.”
But people have forgotten his face,
he swallowed the key.
The familiar words and voices
echo against the crumbling walls of a vacant church.