Kyle E. Christie

A Folsom of sheets and pillows,
And from my window,
I see the streets,
And feet that can still walk them.

There hangs high,
The crispy lantern
A firefly, out of reach,
Flicks me in and blinks out.

I remember the night of rage,
Veering and smearing
That wafer bone makes a tasty crunch
And sounds like a cell door snapped shut.

Beeping metronome of vitae
Counts down until last dinner’s done,
And leftovers can be packed away
but I’m not hungry.