The tyranny of the immediate surrounds me
like some colorful ring-straked disingenuous snake.
It creates a subtle indentured oxygen debt
to which I am an unwilling servant.
I am seduced and drawn mysteriously
to the inside by inviting eyes,
labored breathing, and a forked tongue,
debts for which
I am accountable but can not pay.
The inner circle
of the unsatisfied inside presses me
into predetermined patterns
like some checkered garment based on the look of the wind.
It blows through unoccupied rice paddies like a friend
and feeds me
samaritan food on a stick,
a meal prepared by dictators.