The man protecting Pi
sits in the last cell
down a dark hall,
bent in consternation
over a paint palette,
its colored stripes
a child’s keyboard
xylophone petals
coded to remember
the whole of it all
next to him in a cell
so close
they hear each other’s
considerations
like dreams,
a teacher
traces fine connected
filigrees
on the wall
and hums a song
he almost remembers
about stars and sheep
and something called an alphabet
he thinks, but is not sure
words are not his charge
words belong to the woman
down the hall
who lives in a room of books
stacked floor to ceiling
their faded covers
and cracked spines
are her dominion
into which she gets lost
for days or weeks,
leaves them all —
the scientist,
the teacher,
the healer,
the artist,
the poet —
waiting to hear
how it ends,
wondering if it all comes
full circle.
Poem ©2025, Jen Payne. Photo by Ron Lach.
randomactsofwriting.net 