I play possum inside an oscillating magnetic tube
after a war game of ring around the rosy.
I was the only one who fell down,
cracked my crown and ended up as a POW.
I lie as still as the soldiers in the Terra Cotta Tomb,
mumbling the mantra Maharishi taught me in 1960.
The fear of being buried alive haunted
an old friend of mine who arranged
to have windows installed in his coffin.
I think I’ll do the same for my tin thing
so I can look out at the green pastures
and the abundance of red bougainvillea
climbing up an old oak tree, a tonic
for anyone practicing to remain still forever.