The secrets were solitary confinement though his were no darker than those pen and paper generals with homeward denial.
He walked the halls slowly, with desperate perfection, offering success in shackles to silver spoon dropouts.
This fortunate son was knotted up in doors behind crowded apartments projecting futures out windows and trickling down economics.
A play was written for his absent professors about marks on dusty white blackboards while their lectures snuck out and breathed in a cigarette.
Forcing lines and boundaries, pushing folds and tearing envelopes. He kept a bag packed in the back seat for the miles traveled if he ever got caught.
- July 14, 2014. -