Exile

I find myself sitting in a dark room,
afraid of human contact. I am shivering,
even though the heat is turned up high.
perhaps the insulation in this centuries
old building is not sufficient to keep out
the portent of winter settling down
upon our heads. I shift my weight a little,
as my position leaning up against the wall
becomes numbing. I am in some sort of prison,
but by now I have become so accustomed
to it I cannot remember if a foreign agent
has put me here, or if I am in some exile.
Nothing comes in, save for a bowl
of rice shoved at me from the narrow chink
of light that shows under the door. I have come
to know this benevolent hand as Jeff. Its venation
betrays a soft feminine touch, the small hands
gingerly remove the bowl, and slam small
door shut with a clinking sound. The nails
are nicely trimmed, and very clean.

I have taken to defecating in the opposite
corner near the air vent. When I first arrived,
I had hoped that removal from this place
would come shortly. I held in my animal urges
for days, only to relent. That first time,
I felt faint, as the circulation is poor
and the fumes that sat feet away from me
had been sent to porcelain depths for all
the life that I can remember.
I don’t have that now.