Manse

Born in a house of glass
I.C.U. for an entire childhood
as ushers and vestrymen
monitored
the babies.

Cool walls, first props for first steps
smudged with the grease of growth-
later, tapped upon curiously
then pounded upon furiously
as adolescence settled in.
Looking out.
Seeing in.

They would not be satisfied.
The monitors.
We would not be Gods
or God’s children
or even angels.
But neither would we hang
from someone else's cross
for someone else’s guilt.

And we left the glass manse
by the back door.
Escapees.
Defectors.
Exiles.
Refugees.
But I still have the key
to remind me
of failing to be
PK
or PC.