bunk beds stacked, thin mattresses
on steel spring decks, this cloistered
container, dorm room coffin where
20-year old boy-men play loud music
ska, reggae, rap, sometimes Phish
trapped inside institutional time
grab sleeping bag, late April night
up fir tree trail to quiet hilltop where
moths float over darken meadow
endless bedroom, alone for slumber
they say he broke
into dozens of homes
to steal calories, for
each winter he had
to survive Maine woods
under sleeping bag after
sleeping bag, wake himself
at 2am some freezing
nights just to move
around and live, not
die of frozen heart
stoppage of blood like
how time stood still
his twenty seven years
alone in trees listening
to the chickadees, chickadees
he listened more than
the rest of us
who were warm watching
M*A*S*H reruns, wondering when
the next war would
begin, but he never
even looked at his
own reflection, didn’t witness
the changing of human
events, his were the
seasons, and the thieving
moments late at night
so he could stay
alone forever, however long
that might be, but
one evening he was
caught and it all
ended, his silent solitude
had to speak again
sad, no longer free
Daniel W. Polk 