Jack in the Box
(A poetic response to "Sweet Like a Crow" by Michael Ondaatje)

Your voice is like a hidden predator, lurking in the tall grass,

waiting patiently to strike.

Like a teacher counting backwards in the last seconds of a test.

Like the muffled sound of the audience as you wait to mount the stage.

Like a character in a horror movie about to enter the basement,

unaware of the murderer concealed

in the shadows of the staircase.

Like an ascending minor scale.

Staring intently at a jack in the box and listening to the

falsely sweet tune as you wait for the jack to be freed of its prison.

Like waking up on a Saturday morning to finally discover

what will happen to your favourite character,

only to be met by a string of commercials.

Like watching someone blow a balloon and knowing

that no matter how many times they deny it,

the balloon has reached its maximum capacity.

Like a single key on a broken piano being pressed repeatedly.

The monotonous voice of the lonely robot,

trapped in the confines of an iphone and

freed only by the accidental press of the home button.

Playing a game of tag on the playground at lunch

and being interrupted by the school bell, calling you inside.

Like walking down a deserted street at midnight,

like a football being thrown at your stomach.

Like when I was standing on a bright white line amidst a sea of blue, 

listening for the telltale click of a music player, and the grim voice of a man,

reminding us that our test begins in thirty seconds.