Plunk

I heard the plunk
of the desiccated mummy as
I went to pluck
the high-strung steel guitar.
I’d wondered
What had become of him.
Had thought
that his chances were really quite dim;
back when he was just a little frog.

Climbing up into that big, black case
into the hole
the safe-looking carapace;
I’m sure that he’d thought he was doing much better
than that big, bright, enclosure of glass.

Though he had all the food, and the warmth, and the water,
and the safety any amphibian ever could have asked for
He’d chosen the death trap of that dry, dark, dead, wooden, sound chamber.

Sometimes limits aren’t prison.
Sometimes freedom is dust.