The Frame

On a frame the cloth is woven,
Shaped to a product it cannot control.
On a frame the skins are tanned,
Streached naked for use.
On a frame the drum skin is pulled
So its cries are heard when struck.
I, too, was streached on a frame,
In a time beyond my control.
Streached until my joints ached--
Spread for use by makers of pain.
My cries were heard when I was struck.
And when taken down from the frame
I found that things streached on frames
Don't find their first worn shapes.
What once fit in my life before
Lies misshapen on the floor.