Old Mill

As a boy
I caught His fancy
Chubby cheeks need pinching
Tender bottom needs spanking
Dandelion hair needs yanking
Tiny limbs need binding

Squeezed flat under glass
A pressed wildflower
I sat countless days
Alone
Watching
Listening
Smelling
Rubbing blades of grass
Between stubby fingers

There the river
Ice floes rapids currents floods
There the mill
Six workers buried deep
Within its limestone walls
Behind me, an old drunk
Kicks his dog
I am still
I barely breathe
If I am still,
Perhaps
Death cannot find me.

Seven.
I was seven
When you made the world
My prison,
Locked me in
And threw away the key