Block 222

When I was on the bottom bunk
feet between the metal bars above
to help with the sheet
I saw a little man’s face
and a butterfly
on the wall.

It wasn’t Birkenau
or Theresienstadt
but a place
where children
toss food
into the trash
instead of picking
potato skins
out.

Road Runner and friends
stare blank stares here,
muselmen of another sort,
breathless, numb,
in line for roll call.

Here they sleep next to cats
instead of on their bread
and shoes are lined up
underneath
rather than glued to bloodied feet.

There’s a ceiling fan
not a shower head
books to read
not burn
gold on the shelf
not melted for the Reich
and Jesus under glass
with a lamb.

© 7/27/01, Lois E. Olena