Everyone lives in a glass box; he calls himself their keeper. The slightly curved glass panes extend up and around them, leaving the artificial hills in plain view. Sometimes he tries to peer in, searching for another pair of wandering eyes, but he sees only the reflected light.

A child is prostrate, head on the grass,
wailing in an all-consumed fury.
His parents make no attempt to halt his cacophony.
Other walkers titter at the sight
of the hysterics and the silent resignation.

I’d hate Tuesdays if it weren’t for you. Tuesdays are boring until five, when you arrive. Mom thinks I deserve better, yet mom doesn’t count. The clock’s ticking, she’ll say next, like that huge clock on the wall, the one I’m staring at right now, counting the time till we meet.

She watches them dance, twirling through their routines, against the skies, graying, graying. Charcoal-colored clouds hanging, scowling, breeze blowing, leaves sweep to the ground, crinkling, crumpling. Some take flight again, but others are trampled upon, without love or thought, these graceful beauties.

John hadn’t moved for hours, perhaps days now. Circle line, they kept him going, one after another. The carriages all hummed and rattled in much the same way, jostling from side to side, swooshing into stations, steaming off in a huff once emptied, refilled.

The Fairy Godmother said it won’t last forever
Yes, the ball happens; but yes, the spell breaks
The Magic Mirror, there’ll always be someone superior
Alas, someone else now has what it takes