I keep the blinds closed
And don’t look outside
What’s the weather doing?
Is it warm where you are?
The fields feel oppressive
They stretch and yawn towards the horizon
I wish for people and pavements and pieces of conversation
And rain dripping from awnings onto concrete.
(If I built this prison then why don’t I have a copy of the key?)
I thread my hands through the bars
Reaching for the touch of skin on skin
Stretching fingers brushing thin air
I keep the blinds closed
Is it warm where you are?