A friend I’ve not seen in a dozen years
Speaks to me of her siloed life
Folks where she lives don’t notice near-neighbors
Except when they drive over or past them 

Her silos are forged of streets and highways
Hue of skin and eye
Yet silos now sprout for poets and painters
Stars and pols, bakers and boilermakers
All need never leave their silos

To hold in means to keep out
When people see others just through a screen
Silos can rise straight up to the clouds
Corral desire, disgust and dreams
Push away the heart of a world

So why have I not spoken so long to my friend
Has the slim silo of my self
Kept out one who should never have been lost?
If we don’t breach our silos, what is the cost?

Some silos best stay open, others well-closed
Dakota silos stand straight up
High cylinders full with barley and corn
Beneath them steel towers, drilled in black earth

There soldier-monks whisper in codes
Concrete doors quick-set to unfold
Touch a few buttons, their weapons load

These missiles can wipe out millions of souls
Which of these silos will you break?