to his calendar. Every day
is filled as the layers in
a cake. No more room on
his plate.

He’s tied
to his thoughts. Just as
the blocks in a Jenga game
they stack on top in a square
frame.

He’s tied
to his cell.  It's swelled his head and
wired to his hands. He stares at it
night and day. It’s turned him
to stone/his Medusa phone.

He’s tied
to his laptop. The only fruit
you see is the apple on his screen. He touches
letters and numbers, dancing with
his fingers, lingering over pronouns,
stuck as jabbing splinters.

He’s tied
down with lies/*******
in his work. Jerking women
around. Cut the ties –
stop acting the clown!