As if it were a crime!

And here we are!
Locked. (In the prison of myself)
Turning circles around the maypole.

Do we pour the tea or do my feet stand
Locked to our hands. (We are one times twenty-one)
I sit (indian style) on the floor of the supermarket. (Next to the canned beets)
As if its a crime to sit in the supermarket (next to the canned beets), the police carry me away.
Just because I was tired.
Just because my feet hurt and I wanted to sit down.
But do they put chairs in the supermarket by the canned beets?
No.

Just because we don't feel like talking to them.
Perhaps I am meditating?
And YOU interrupt me.

So here I am, sitting in the police station (indian style)
--they moved the lumpy log--
Still. Meditating.
The police are have a conference.
I was fine on the meditation flooring.
Now YOU have a problem.
The doctors come. With their clipboards
And restraints
And cell phones
And white shoes

So here I am sitting in the mental ward (indian style)
Devoid of me-ness. I finish my meditation.
Slippers and eyes. Mush and spoons.
Broken puzzles and urine. (I do wish that damn me would stop moaning in my ear)

Just because I sat on the floor in the supermarket.
As if it were a crime!