free men, they call themselves;
those confined hearts that are dining
on fine china drinking aged wine
knowing not a desire or cause of whining.

the rest of us sit idle,
brittle dirt walls holding
this fortress, a prison
barless chasm with sediment molding.

hapless mice of christmas eve,
we gnaw our cracked lips
as they wipe off with their sleeves.
i hear their footsteps fade
as the night proceeds.

and this night, i dream
of the carriage’s dowel
cracking under pressure
and perforating their bowels

so that they might feel
the piercing within,
the crawling of skin, hair erect,
from skewered intestine

and forget not the real hand that feeds
through sowing and toiling.
or you’ll wake to find a plot of weeds,
served a dinner of meat, festered and spoiling.