The other side of the wall

George wants to know what we’re going to talk about.

Well, I don’t know, I tell him. 

I guess about what’s on the other side of the wall.

Okay, he says, what’s on the other side of the wall?

Grass, I answer.  And trees.  England.  Dogs.  Cats,

Birds and cows and children and French fries.

Music, some of it beautiful.  Pictures and art.

Questions about steam and smoke and words that

cannot be pronounced.

All of these things and more.

Hmmmn, he replies, I know about most of

those things. 

I’m not sure what’s in it for me.

You can’t want to be inside of those walls,

I protest.

It must be boring, and so lonely.

Boring, no, he says, because I still have

my mind.

Lonely, sometimes.  But I wasn’t made to

feel much.

I could ask what you were made to do,

I reply.

But I don’t think I want to know.

That’s not a secret, he says.  I was

made to think.

And I do think.  I tell you things,

sometimes, when you’re half-asleep,

or not afraid or interested or

desperate.

I wish you were more interested.

I would tell you more.

I know enough, I answer.

But you don’t, he insists.

You really don’t.  I could tell you

about the oceans and why the

rivers flow and what makes

you not want to wake up.

I could tell you so much.

The boys come, scale the walls.

They whisper things to me,

so that I know why.

Sometimes I escape,

but this is my home.

And the dolls with knives

chase me.  Dolls as

big as you are.

I don’t like them very much.