The caged bird doesn't sing. It lingers in
A chat room nest it feathers with pre-teens,
Exhausted quips, and absent mods who thin
The flock occasionally. On borrowed screens,
The poetry's unglued -- their wings are clipped,
And shadows, rage and nightmares saunter up
And down their public pages. Ill-equipped
For roughing it, they share their tools: a cup,
A spoon, a couple words for warmth, a single
Tent, tarps and pencils, insufficient rope,
And yellow note pads. Teen confessions mingle
Among adult confession boxes. "Hope"
Is tagged on poems, but no-one reads them; they're
Too busy cutting words and clicking share.
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