As he looks out past prison bars,
He magnifies the unkempt world:
Sees leftovers for Sunday lunch,
Dry sandwiches, with corners curled.
The paint is peeling off the doors;
The once-thumbed books are brown and frayed.
Through windowpanes, opaque with grime,
Lie bills piled high, as yet unpaid.
Most words recede in faded ink;
All vivid colours dim with age,
While in the far-off squares and lanes
Some strangers congregate in rage.
All this is far from his concern,
As he retreats to his domain,
Where he blanks out that cussed state
And won’t pretend to feel its pain.