U: Rhombus Rallies

Rhombus Rallies

The sobs of his victims wake him
as they do every night
when the moonrise over prison walls
casts a barred shadow
across the door of his cell,
an unholy triptych
of accusation and denial
flanking a failed flail of hope.

On the bunk below
still tied and gagged
his tormentor struggles for breath
snuffling the rank air in
through his own bubbling snot.
Rhombus feels the eyes
boring into his body,
twin drills of loathing and jealousy
that pierce him with the guilt
he masks.

Outside, the city hums it seduction,
each passing car a siren call.
Staring through the window of his cage,
Rhombus sees the few weak stars
Fighting their way past
the city's sodium glare,
but in his mind he stands on the Irish beach
where his footsteps traced a perfect circle
lit by the cosmos spinning about him;
a basketball balanced
on a single perfectly manicured finger,
while the ravenous sand-flies
crawl doubtfully from their daybeds
puncturing the damp sand with tunnels
from darkness below to darkness above.
In the light from his failing torch
Rhombus stands purposefully on the insects
grinding them back into the sand.

In his cell, his tormentor's snuffling ceases
with a final spluttering gasp
as rhombus steps through the locked door
onto what was once the prison landing
and walks to freedom, sneering
past white coated warders
who fail to see him
but notice the smell of the sea
and find their ankles bitten
as if by a thousand tiny insects