Slept through breakfast, even though the alarm bell rang,
loud enough to make the dead restless and rumble in their graves.

Dreamt of the long wooden table and childhood placemats,
from the orphanage again.

On elaborately carved chairs sat
neon nuns with one finger poised at their solemn lips,
the first two letters of shush not yet formed
so even if you were deaf, you knew not to speak.

They weren't real; even in the dream; they were merely
nuns from the waist up, thick forms meant to be seen
like a billboard in Las Vegas,
the opposite of the barely clad female shapes
advertising topless go-go girls at sleazy bars.

It's another beautiful day in prison
and all of the libraries of my mind,
especially this one.
Imagine days to wander through piles and piles
of old books.

Reading a book called "Perfect Madness: Motherhood
in the Age of Anxiety" to pass the time between meals.
I'm in charge of the DISCARD pile, but must read the books first.

I had forgotten the term "bra burning", what it stood for and
why some women were so fervent
and how the act had become equated with men burning draft cards.

How did we forget and allow Oprah and Victoria's Secret
to wash our brains? Oh, and Canada with the Wonder Bra.

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