Four walls, bland with a large picture of a body anatomy
I wait lonely in the room
The sun shines through, touches a paper
I draw a dog on the paper
Then a wave of coffee arrives in the room
A mouth full of black teeth open,
Teach me how to pronounce a word
“Wagon”
Me a passenger on the wagon and she pulls the handle
She guides me through the traffic
Pronouncing, “you have to catch up with them”
I wonder about old people who can’t retire
Many mouths I can’t grab full messages or nothing
See the train station’s clock ticks
Mispronouncing the word, impatience creates the time
Feel stressed how can I play the game with others?
Hands drop with a disappointing sigh
She pronounces the word, “Wakon”
My Adam’s apple elevates, pronounces, ‘wakon’
She replies, “good good good”
Her spell gets backfired
I take off the wagon
I dance with my hands, my body, and my face
You don’t be the British with me
My hand language is my home
I don’t belong to the wagon
The world you show me is a fascist
They not only hurt me, they hurt you too eventually
I walk away freely
From the mind-controlling cult
I no longer am blindfolded
I am full WAKON.