the same bleary eyed
sun
greets you at the door
on your way
to your prison
where everyone smiles
politely
and the politics
are correct
and the men have papers
of someone else's life
and the women have photos
of the strangers
they live with

you shuffle your files
to the beat of a clock
your only heaven
the sound of a bell

you come home
to empty envelopes
vacant art
and listless furnishings
all mail order blessings
for an eight hour life

and as you drink
your imported beer
smoke
your crutch
the last birds of daylight
call to you
the sun
reaching desperate fingers
over the face of dusk
fighting its way
through your window
calling you out
to live

the person you were
whistles by your window
daring you
to catch the spell
as you retreat from the light
and retire to your bed

the last birds of daylight
lamenting your death
in a language
you no longer speak
nor understand