I sit in the courtyard watching them. It is square, concrete all around, the pad under my butt.
Grit everywhere. Sand. Small pebbles like irregular irises.
Sun beats down. It’s so hot and I’m thirsty but there’s nothing to drink. I am stuck here, in this roomless cell with its roofless walls, a prisoner of my own making.
I have misbehaved again
and shuffle to the courtyard
head down, eyes narrowed against the strong sunlight streaming into my darkness
as I shuffle out into the courtyard
and sit down.
Look at them scuttle, run around.
I pick up a small stone – a boulder to him.
and I throw it.
It bounces around, missing him.
I pick up another and throw it again. Then a handful.
Bombs falling down
in the ant playground
while I sit watching them.
– This is from my childhood, when I’d get so bored and there was nothing to do. I don’t know where the courtyard came from, but we were there. Sitting there in the hot sun. Voices in the distance tell me I am not alone, but there is no one elsewhere that I can detect . . . I was held prisoner sometimes in that courtyard in my mind and ants were the only entertainment I had; that, and the blazing sun.