I miss my old home;
how perfectly outstretched arms leave my wrists
vulnerable to December.
Separated from
sleeve and glove, oblivious to the warm
sweat shield my arms take for granted,
they become handcuffed
by sensation. I miss that sensation.
After years of conditioning
and discipline, the body becomes
a loyal test subject;
developing the talents to
perform and preserve
a collection of seasonal poses.
A bell ring reverberates through
sinew and bone; my spine
bends,
head tilts back.
From an impressionable balcony seat
The image must be picturesque;
one fixed position in time; an actor,
caught mid-scene as the curtain falls.
The bell-driven surge reaches my mouth and orders
it open.
Sheltered taste buds are sacrificed
to crystal shavings that layer
my tongue like feathers.
The bell is muted.
I am Pavlov. I miss being Pavlov.