Iron
They put a power-gate across our road.
We live secure here, locked inside. We punch
the keypad numbers, the bar swings free.
And yet, one neighbor’s in a gurney-bed,
his lungs like punctured tires. He lies
among plucked feather comforters. Are we
safe or free? A phoebe flashes overhead.
What do birds care for metal barriers?
Take in sky with every breath you breathe.
Copyright © Taylor Graham | Year Posted 2011
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