Surveillance

by Carmen Eichman

Surveillance, steady censors,
safeties snapped, despite my perseverance
in slipping past command posts
after a glass of wine or two or three.
The tower and spot light of conscience
require obscurity, safety reasons cited.
Often I stand before the tall fence, my eyes traveling
slowly, slyly, up the tall length of its
streaming rolls of concertina wire
as tangled as my legs; they belie my limpish
attempts at escape. Oh, it’s happened,
when I busted through the gates,
slipped seamlessly to the other side, breathed the air
of self
until
the lights of guilt
splashing through my window of joy,
illuminate my ribs,
heat my bones, the warden of shame,
its burning reflection defeats my defiant glare,
locks my heart in its dark compartment
of solitary confinement. I now have
plenty of time to think
before busting out again….