STRIPED PYJAMA CASE
If ever I couldn’t imagine where I might one day be, this is that place. I’m supposed to be a writer, but I couldn’t write this. A poet might have done a better job of not being seen.
This is the end and the beginning. It’s a barrier I reach as I walk in my sleep. It’s a frontier. I came here alone, not seeking company, but something found me when I fell in a ditch.
I sleep on my side, sheilding my eyes from the glare as humanity takes a Polaroid of itself. In someone’s blinding flash, I see the bones in my hand.
The ground rattles, and the people around me whisper, “If you hear hooves, think zebras, not horses.”
How to cross the road in striped pyjamas.