the prison between the binding

reading time was his least favorite time of day. the teacher's pencil skirt zipped so tight, seemed to be like mummys wrappings, well-fitted grave clothes.

shhh. no talking.

the words did not make sense unless they were spoken. they longed to be spoken.

but for forty minutes each school day, he flipped the pages without understanding.

the ships would not leave the dock.

the adventurers added locks to their doors.

bluejays sang and nobody heard them.

children were ignored like shriveled prunes that nobody likes.

forty minutes of pretending.

then on to history - when the sea tasted like salty tea.

compliments of incensed colonists.

but his voice was like magic and justice. it liberated words, black with languish. and ships. and adventurers. it gave bluejays and children the freedom that only an attentive listener could. an earthquake of sound emancipated the captives in the prison between the binding.

their life was on his lips:

endless oceans and mountain ranges and skies and jungle gyms.