The Temperature of All Loss

I have been in this place.
Not in Pakistan, but still.
Not good.

I have sat on this mat.
In this barred light.
All day and all night.

I have been tied
to the bed frame.
Leather cuffs and no pleasure.

I have looked to the left
and to the right.
All day and all night.

I have been stared at
and inspected, dismissed.
Pitied with anger.

Deterrent in the form of sadness.
Without end I remembered Herbert’s dictum
(seen about the place often)

“He who cannot forgive breaks the bridge
over which he himself must cross,”
and the guts of that I agree with.

But still, only somewhat.
The trite and meaningful, so warm

has no place in that place
for it is cold there.
The temperature of all loss.