Poetry

For days he has found his way in the beaconed off world
during the early morning twilight
and he was confined and caged into a life,
almost mechanical in aloofness
all of the time he was tied, almost purposeless,
while to his best he did his task
until the shrill ringing of the five o’clock bell,
and early in the mornings he unlocked his door
in his great love of woman and child
and later he walked back street block after street block
to his wife’s soft greeting, her friendly kiss,
as another gear in the city’s machine,
where he experienced the city as just another shoe
until the setting sun touched the hillocks.