by Nick Gisburne
Protective of her pets, her precious toys,
Two barely breathing children in a box,
She slips a mouldy morsel to the boys,
Completing her inspection of the locks.
Escape would bring disaster to the plan,
And separate her body from its head.
She keeps them both alive as best she can;
No ransom now if either one were dead.
The birds disturb her schizophrenic sleep.
She shuffles to the spyhole of the door,
But, seeing only ghosts, who walk, and weep,
She checks the box, still empty, as before.
We note her moves, her moods, however strange.
Expecting nothing more, we see no change.
