silent flutter

There on the bench
I watch them all

Aimless bees
buzzing passed in silent chaos

The conscious choice to ignore,
to not to flutter a wing
in passing

They write my mind off,
say my sanity is corrupt
Behind closed doors I hear the whispers
of the cement solitude they applaud

They made me unsuitable
for living anywhere but here

They don’t know

My mind is its own institute
a dormant field
harvesting thoughts
torn by the roots before ripe

Ask any farmer
and he’ll tell you—
He’ll point you here

I sit at that bench
through the barred window,
in the midst of the buzzing
with steel arms against me
as the wall pushes back
bending and swelling

Ripe too soon;
You’ll see