We wear tags around our necks here,
lest they be impounded like dogs.
Except, unlike our canine brethren,
because we wear these badges
bearing puppy-aged portraits
of when we were captured,
we are impounded,
shut into cubicle kennels.
I’m digging my way out.
Right now. More each day.
I use a penpoint shovel to make holes
in the grounding of reality and,
if need be, I’ll sprout wings
made of white paper to fly to you.
You who abet my escape by investigating
my daily forays toward freedom.
Each time you pick me up,
pull me out of this dreadful state,
I’ll get frantically excited,
my mind will wriggle
with more tail-wagging
tale waggery. I may even tinkle.
It can be a messy business,
this blessed escapism.