Imprisoned Days

We stand the days in rows
of numbered cells
and make them
state their names.

At their feet
we scrawl our plans,
as if we put them
in their mouths.

Doctor Appt. 4 pm
may in truth
be Flat Tire 3:47.

The past says little more.

Last Tuesday’s
high temperature of 37
I wrote
and remembered.

The lunch menu
and office conversation
I did not
and forgot.

When we look away
the days leave their cells
and run wild.
For Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub


At Lafayette Square

Wren stands
on the round
stainless steel table top,

feet tread a burnished surface
which shimmers as water,
even in shade.

She looks up at me
expecting food
but I am behind glass.

After a moment, she hops
to the chair back
and flies.

The tables there are round now. LOL.
Loosely following the dVerse poem prompt.