Evenly stacked cells
rust red, organized, precise layers
Neighbor of the street and of the clouds.
Only sporadically placed window panes interrupt the
orderly, zigzag procession flowing upwards.

Reflecting glass doors separate, revealing to our noses
the stench of Jell-O, antiseptic, rubber gloves and overcooked chicken
All of the colors blended together into a dull white,
With the exception of glittered patterns on the cold tile floors,
Everything is a shadow.

The musty, gloomy elevator yanks up stubbornly,
as if its cables were burdened by our weight,
and it stops abruptly, and opens its door in slow motion.

The eleventh floor is a jail.
The prisoners held captive by their own minds.
The heavy lead doors, alarms, and barred windows
Simply reminders of thoughts that they could not escape.

We crossed a border, passports in hand, fully inspected.
The rock was rolled over to seal our tomb, and we were stuck,
No handles, no escape.

They brought him to us through another door—
Mismatched, ruffled hair, skin and bones.
His mouth was a clown's—cherry red outlining his lips.
Scarred arms—traces of teeth,
He was quiet. Wanted to play cards. Wanted to just sit.
Stagnant hugs, a brave face, and good-bye
Until next week.