A Wedge of the World

by Vincent R. Pozon

I own a folding screen chiseled
out of teak, painted skimpily,
in that style that does not conceal
the wood grain and the carving,

My desk is built into a corner,
the wooden screen guards my back,
it has shaped me solace, carved
me a small wedge of the world.

Behind me, the family room,
the breakfast meal under covers,
today it is a picture, the table,
past lunch, waits to be visited.

Behind me, television and noise
about the poison in the air,
the noise has curious fingers
that clasp the edge of the panel.

On my right, a window spooks
the village park, normally
source of screeches and squeaks
of rubber soles running up slides.

Nearest me is a swing, the sort
with seats and laughter that face
each other, but today the park
is a picture of none and not there.

They have disallowed the shrieks,
but I just heard a swing squeak,
a girl with mask sits on one side,
while holding the leash to her dog.

Dog and I watch this young subversive
as she jerks and breaks the rules,
trying to make the swing work,
trying to make the picture move.