Waiting to Burn (I)
The cells aren't as bad as they threatened.
In honesty, I feel quite at home.
And all it really took was a woman's touch.
By touching the guard, for example,
I transformed my cell into one with a view.
Why, with just a flutter of my eyelids,
I have conjured up: one table, one chair,
this paper, this pen. And with a doleful pout
from my small window, I called to me
flowers from a young man's hand.
(And a vase full of pity to sit them in.)
I hear it whispered through the walls
that I used my magic. I suppose I did.
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