What Is to Be Done?

What to do when alien are others' thoughts and needs? From lips, without a sound, fly words, like arrows from a bow. The mind won't let them pass onto the steamer's bridge, into the cabins deep below, guarding the warmth of home. What to do when the cold's inside, and you're no longer young? And hunger — that mean old aunt — lashes with a spiritual whip, till it hums and echoes… There's not a tiny gap to get out into the open. Get drunk — here, have a puddle, stuff yourself — here, but will that help you live without the pain? What to do? You're no beacon… Just pot-bellied small fry. Burring, mumbling: futility, and total invisibility. Without the stick — not even a zero. A little table by the toilet. Darling of Miss Freebie, forehead bowed in glory, to think it's in the bag… The spirit's bound, silent, gagged, and dreams of freedom, of finding on its own steamer one day a little crack and slipping quietly away… But look — the doors are wide open, to freedom… not so sure…