Silver Locks

                                  SILVER LOCKS

Cafe tables set feet,
can be worlds apart,
depending on who
has decided to park
their all important self
in the chair,
and, laughing about
a stranger's hair,
decide the fate
of yet another life,
while dreaming in red
of their partner's wife.

Playing the game
til dusk from dawn
he'll pay one of us
for mowing the lawn
surrounding the building
he's labelled as home
where, when he's there,
has to be shown
which are his
of the kids in the street
and where to find
the bed where he sleeps
with a closed tight mind
and two open eyes
and every thought dreamt
is one more try
to find the angle
in that game,
to win his idea
of fortune and fame,
and if he doesn't
then to place the blame
on someone else
for dealing the shame
that goes with not having
a six figure wage,
or a daily spot
on the society page.

The very sugar plums
that dance in his head
will rot his heart
before he's dead
and those who think
they know him best
line up to pin
medals on his chest
for obeying each
of  society's rules
while quietly marching
to the drum of a fool.

Dreams are kept out
of his daily thoughts
scared to death
of being caught,
laughed at, scorned,
and labelled lazy,
or, even worse,
thought of as crazy,
in this world
where being sane
means getting up early
and catching the train,
standing proud in your suit
and silk thread tie,
to hang by the neck
until you die.

Securely sealed
in an airtight box
of gleaming bronze
with silver locks,
there's no spare room
for money or things,
one size fits all,
pawn or king.