unable to cross legs, to sit on the floor...
then stand without mimicking a camel rolling to his feet.
It is a prison: terminal ugliness, gross, grotesque,
too lazy/tired/depressed for cleanliness, for style,
for participation in life. It is a prison,
sentenced to life without hope, staying there
day after day, year after year, decade after decade.
THEY say we hold the key, can in release
by changing, by willpower, by helping ourselves
but they don't know, can;'t understand,
if we could, we would. Then visitors come,
former inmates, people who understand,
who have been there, agree we cannot
but tell us if a Power that can, give us twelve keys
to unlock the doors, to walk free.
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