Late at night,
alone in my kitchen,
I imagine I talk with
my jailers,
raise questions about
the waning of the light,
the lengthening of shadows,
even the radiator burps
and the creaking of the floorboards.
I’ll pour them a drink
and slide it across the table.
I’ll thank them for
removing the handcuffs.
I’ll show them something I’ve written.
They’ll ask,
“What do you think about
the Turkish man
beaten to death by skinheads
in Germany?”
I’ll say, “Is that what
I’m in here for?
To come up with an answer?”
As usual, they fall asleep waiting
for my reply.
As always, I finally
stumble up to my bed,
slam the cell doors behind me.
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