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The Burlap Sack
A cattle-prod I hold to my heart
to think of then;
diminishing returns, the clinks for years
reminding me of when
I could not talk-
my eyes no more inclined to view another's
in the sun-
shadows my playroom, alone,
where I was everyone.
I shared a blanket with Jean Valjean, smothering
in Siberian misery- my gulag
Stalin's dream,
those years that should have meant the most-
I remain so chained to my own ghost.
A century sliced near half,
one might think one lay down the past,
and I do- in the boardroom, the dinners; of course
they have no part of me (they see)-
one hand wields the cattle-prod-
only one head nudges “Yes” in nod.
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