little russian nesting dolls
we sit but never move
in the end it seems that there are ropes that bind us,
tight around our ankles, keeping us
here, little nesting dolls, shelved
tethered and empty, hollow but for
dust and dreams of the roads and
cities and traffic and
windows framing more than one tree.
people laugh, walking by
and we'll hear the incessant bell-jingle
of words of conversation
but always in snippets, floating,
always like little crumbs from a
meal we'll never eat.
