They call me Subject B.

Belly full with the pills
they fed me, still hungry,

legs pumping
to pendulum this swing,

inside a playground
that ignores my miming,

shrieking and throwing feces,
at hairless beings who nox me.

Dreaming of melting
the swing's chain, I fly
feet dangling over
cages of sick chimpanzees,
to a distant galaxy
that grows banana trees.

Awaken I see
empty syringes strewn
outside the crisscrosses
of my cage, trenchcoats
storm like flurries.
I still cannot read my nameplate.

I hope on my swing,
pumping my legs
back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth —
glassy eyes watering.