The Padded Cell

The only furniture is a man in a corner

Wearing his nakedness

As if he'd borrowed it from someone smaller.

He fidgets, it doesn't

Fit, he wants it off, he has nothing right

Or left to lose but his message

In this shut room and screams it silently

Through a secret passage

From his heart to his throat by the lectern of his

tongue

Where he spills now

What he has to say for a soundless freedom of speech

And mouths it straight-

Forwardly up to a lightbulb shining down

On the blank canvas

Of the floor and walls, all padded to forgive

And forget those who trespass

Against them like this man who scrabbles erect,

Beginning to strut

And run away from it all through the looking-glass

Of the Judas window

Before he comes to an abrupt conclusion

Smack up against it.