The Persuasive Method of Choices

The sun is cold here,
blue iced over you
like so much Hell.
The sun hides in
an ill grave behind
the clouds at
Westminster Abbey,
peering like a man
in a candy store
through the shelves
like clouds, attempting
to whisper to the poets,
dead as leaves piled
in the abbey corner
like old Playboys
stacked in a box,
wooden box.
I would fly from
here into another cage,
telling myself it’s
freedom, like a
convincing, smirking
democracy freed from
small town oppression.
I’d only be a small
town oppressed girl
in a big oppressed city
ruled by Parliament
and God, always ruled.
I cower in the corner
of this place next to
the condemned Playboys.
Give me liberty or
give me nudity.