The ceiling is glass,
Her room a glass coffin
Where she sleeps and waits;
Rather, she thinks and stirs,
Thinks and stirs,
Day to day, night to night,
Never tiring, always thirsting
For something more.
Tap, tap, tap.
She presses her palms
Against the glass,
Leaves her imprints there
For a second, no more;
It is proof she exists
In more than mind,
For sometimes she feels
Like a head in a jar,
A figment of someone’s
Imagination; a twisted notion
Of what romance is:
Little lady, helpless woman,
Held within glass,
Ready for someone to dream her free.
That isn’t the key.
It never is.
Tap, tap, tap.
She has every sum, every quote,
All antidotes locked in her head;
The designs, the formulas;
She could be the forerunner
Of countless things,
With no end of ingenuity,
A soul for creativity,
A heart for sensitivity,
A mind for rationality,
A rainbow of attributes
Waiting to light
From her prism.
Tap, tap, tap.
She is within.
Tap, tap, tap.
She won’t give in.
Rap, rap, rap.
Harder now.
Tap, tap, tap.
Softer now.
Patiently impatient.
The rules are ancient.
Tap, tap, tap.
She lifts her back.
Tap, tap, tap.
At last. A crack.
Howard Benn