Locker 39

A poem

Pressure pushes at every angle.

Without sleep

I cannot process.

I wait for the key

In this tiny room.

By New York standards

Or college dorm standards

A room.

Three tables

Seven chairs

Squeezed into 7 by 10.

The wood spool lamp watches.

The heavy door painting hangs.

I will it to open

Time ticks by.

It doesn’t.

A palmistry roll on the wall

I am tempted to examine my hand

Compared to the diagram.

I do not.

I am afraid

There are spies.

Shivering

It is 9 degrees.

When I left it was 3.

An improvement?

It is Thursday.

My right ankle hurts.

But it looks normal.

In this room at least.

Can you have driver’s ankle?