Your Turn to Flee

The bars are clear and sharp,
barely seen at a distance until
you are there,
caught in that prison,
that gentle, almost invisible oppression,
that place others have fled before you.

You can see their lights.
Distant. Faint. Oddly joyful
as they make their way to their own horizon
while you stay,
a captive to that fine line
between madness and love,
watching,
waiting, always waiting
for your turn to flee.

About this poem. 

My son, when he sees me taking a picture of something oddish, often says “there’s a poem in there somewhere.” He knows me well.

This morning I took this picture on the way to the Metro in Washington, DC. While it’s not a great photograph, it is exactly what I wanted, even though I didn’t know it at the time. Because as the day emerged, so did the poem, and the picture was waiting.

Tom