I find a concentrated atmosphere
begets a concentrated state of mind
and concentrated thought. Such thoughts adhere
to walls, un-cling, re-shape, and breed confined.
The logical conclusion of such thought,
of such a singular conviction is
to get into a box to think, I think.
Is such a length too far to seek what may be sought?
Too deep to plumb for man and powers his?
Once body’s bound, won’t mind push past the brink?
But man’s a boy for all that, and a box
is just a cave. Explore, escape, cocoon,
exchange this world for one less orthodox
if only for a Sunday afternoon.
Be still and I’ll be peacefully ignored,
forgotten by the world beyond thin walls.
Be quiet. No one’s looking for me—yet.
The boring, having quite mislaid the bored,
are slow to drive away abandon’s palls,
the clouds of benevolent neglect.
But boy-years pass. The man can now discern
between restraints which succor thought and bars
which cage the soul. Not so simple to learn
but worth averted madness, worth the scars.
The difference lies in whom is architect
and mason-carpenter and engineer:
puritanical them or noisome us.
The walls they impose, the walls we erect
are not the same. It’s mine, this atmosphere.
Clear the air but don’t call it poisonous.