Faded plumes rise out of the large, cracked flowerpot,
the grey-green fronds resembling tattered boa feathers
falling off a worn-out peignoir now lying in a discarded heap.
Imprisoned in an ochre clay jail, the plant struggles while
beside it a yucca blossoms, impervious to poor soil conditions.
Like children in Gaza playing stick ball with rounded stones
while others clamor in and out of a rusty, abandoned truck
certain of escape through missing doors and broken windows
the palm will remain constricted by its earthenware limits.
There’s a certain relief in understanding boundaries
although they’re not always easy to recognize, given
that we are all infatuated by the illusion of freedom,
just as children, knowing they can leap through bent steel
any time, don’t understand that prisons aren’t always metal
and winning games with rocks can be a losing proposition.