The small window had a curtain
made of checkered blue pajamas.
Outside, in the verdant hills,
there lingered packs of llamas.
It might be South America,
it might be Mexico.
Judging by our only view,
perhaps we’d never know.
Day and night, from overhead,
we’d hear the airplanes roar.
We’d certainly run out to see them
if we had a door.
Inside were boxes of stored food
and other life provisions.
We kept time upon the wall
by making small incisions.
For days on end we stared out
at the land beyond the bars.
Never saw a sign of people,
buildings, roads or cars.
We had two cots, two chairs,
and one small bucket for our loo.
Our life came down to staring at
that square of checkered blue.
