Skeleton kids scurry over rocks,

keys bounce behind them, tinkling,
twine-tied to their ankles.

The sound they make, small
metal on stone, it reminds
me of a room service cart

passing in the hallway at night.

Inside its patter,
I hear words:

Tiny, Timeworn, Shackles

This is the desert.
Out here, sins don't hide.

They burn.