He keeps me in this empty attic.
This, I know, is madness.
From dormer windows I can see
The vital streets where once I used to drive.
I beat my palms against the door,
Solid, unrelenting wood.
He keeps it locked - I might let myself out.
He keeps me in this tottering tower.
This, I know, is malice.
Through unglazed arches I can see
The rocking trees where once I used to climb.
I run my palms across my head,
Stubbly, unbecoming scalp.
He keeps it shaved: I might let myself down.
He keeps me in this bobbing bottle.
This, I know, is magic.
Through seaweed greening I can see
The fish-filled deeps where once I used to dive.
I press my palms against the sides,
Chilly, unresponsive glass.
He keeps it stopped: I might let myself drown.
If you've any comments on this poem, Lotty Walker would be pleased to hear from you.