Gray Flannel, Tapioca and Carbolic
A twill and threadbare poorhouse,
a school.
Broods drilled by unsullied nuns
into sullen lines.
The muted squeak of timid mice
as new brown leather boots
attempt to skip,
though skipping is an offense
behind the fence.
We are tagged, and fed tapioca,
led to cold toilet blocks
to scrub ink-stained fingers
with bricks of green carbolic,
while outside
rosery beads click impatiently.
Rain or shine; strays,
tykes and orphans
are made to march through,
a gray flannelled time
for God knows what reason,
or for God knows what
dark twisted rhyme.
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