In the dead museum
obligation sits, rusting,
a suit of armor
we only just found out
contains a living man.
Why has he been
so quiet all these years?
Why did he just
stand there,
arms at his sides?
A little oil,
and the joints
begin to move.
He takes a step,
lurches off his pedestal,
clanks crazily
toward the front door.
Sounds of frantic
scraping from inside.
He shakes the arm guards,
they clang upon the floor.
He tries to run,
leggings rattling,
pulls the helmet off.
Standing in the doorway
he is gulping
fresh air like a fish.
Young, eager, free,
he races out
into the sunlight.
Max Reif
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/obligation-2/
