Chains

Chains, the kind with cuffs that scrape and dig into his wrists and ankles.

He sits there staring out the window watching the pearly dew drops drip down,

racing one another until they crash at the bottom of the sill.

The ride can’t be too long, but it’s long enough to get trapped in one’s own thoughts.

Other men around him complain and throw cat calls to the woman at the front of the bus.

She bangs on the cage that entraps the group of men and orders them to quiet down.

However, her loud voice does not interrupt the man’s train of thought.

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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