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Laura St.Claire

of

Holden, MA, US

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The Bound

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Aurorala@aol.com (Laura St.Claire )

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The Bound

by

Laura St.Claire

And now the mail flows from the box.
And the vermin
Sound like the rain pouring down,
Scuttling, just like drops
Pinging on a tin roof, drowning out
Sweet, dull moans of pain.

O I'd love to hear how it sounds!
Now that it's tied up and
Bound, and it no longer
Brushes vermin from
Pencil-like legs
With skeleton fingers,
No longer tries to cry out when the
Mailman comes to deliver
Bills and Sears catalogues.

He'll gather our mail in his
Blue bag today,
(I think he thinks that we are away.)
No one has checked the mail
In two weeks and a day.
Not, I -- too busy with matters
Inside. And certainly not the other.
For it is bound and tied.

And it's too weak to cry.
Its black eyes are certainly much
Too dry -- it has lived without
Food for a while,
But I've shut off the waterspout!
And its skin flakes off like a reptile,
And its bones rise like mountains
In summertime-field-colored flesh.

And the scurrying vermin
may sound like the rain
But do nothing to quench the thirst
Of the bound.