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# Caged
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/caged/
- Published: 2026-04-20T16:25:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:09:26.000Z
- Description: “Caged,” a tongue-in-cheek homage to a 20th C. masterpiece. Written April 20, poem 110 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "I Know Why the Caged Candle Sings," by Liz Ducey (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Generational, Humor, Poems, Pun-y / Tongue-in-Cheek, Snarky, Unserious, April, Birdcage, Cage, Candle, Classism, Cool, D.C., Dining, Elite, Homage, La Labo, Maya Angelou, Patrons, Restaurants, Theft, Tongue-in-cheek, Verveine 32, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

*I Know Why The...*  
Caged Candle Sings.  
Or at least,   
I believe I can infer as much.  
  
I'm in a hip D.C. restaurant  
for a pre-concert meal.  
A kind of establishment  
I wouldn't have known   
even existed without my   
much cooler dining companion.  
  
And after a rhubarb elixir  
I pardon myself to use the loo.  
I enter the large single room  
and let out an unguarded cackle.  
A squawk really, upon   
encountering this strange tableau:  
  
A lit candle, flickering, and  
which I take to be quite expensive.  
It's triple pad-locked  
into a black metal birdcage,   
which is in turn placed  
inside an open wooden box,   
atop a golden and glass table,  
in a locked bathroom  
in the heart of D.C.  
A Russian doll of intrigue.  
  
The metaphors and the jokes,  
they flood my thoughts,  
they write themselves.  
My brain sputters,  
flailing to determine  
in which path to travel.  
  
I do my best to suppress  
defiling the sacred memory of  
Presidential Medal of Freedom   
honoree, Maya Angelou.  
(I've failed you;   
I'm deeply sorry, Ms. Maya).   
  
Once my trickster mind quiets  
I begin my detective work.  
In what world, truly,  
did it become necessary  
to clamp down   
three Master padlocks  
onto this birdcage  
in which a clearly precious item  
has been placed   
yet lit ablaze, consumed?  
  
Alas, my germaphobe self  
had left my phone at the table.  
I'd lost my window to snap   
plausibly discreet evidence  
of this perplexing scene.  
  
Back at the table,   
I beseech my guest  
to visit the lav on my behalf,   
equipped with their phone  
to gather proof of this.   
They comply, with glee.  
  
While they're off capturing  
portraits of potty prisoners,  
I unpack the *phenomenal* sight.  
(Auntie forgive me.)  
  
Reunited with my phone  
I take to Goo-Gul.  
I learn that the candle is   
from La Labo, street value $90  
— plus tax and shipping.  
  
So clearly, this joint   
has had more than one  
inebriated patron   
try to run off with a burning idol.   
  
And still further, Management  
has proclaimed the candle   
and its honestly alluring scent  
to be worth the hassle.   
*Figure it out!*   
I can imagine the owner barking  
to their front of house.  
  
And so here we are,  
basked in luxury  
surrounded by security.  
Being asked to both relax  
and feel fabulous —  
while being told we're also  
surveilled and untrustworthy.  
  
And yet.  
Outside the powder room  
in a dark corridor are   
vertical stacks of spent   
La Labo Verveine 32s jars.   
What the bougie wax website   
calls "glass vessels"  
are one a top another,   
skyscraping to the ceiling.  
I'm in an elephant graveyard  
but one for couture candles.  
  
They are unguarded,   
discarded. They telegraph:  
*You can't have me at my best* 
*but you can take me at my worst*.  
  
Now that,   
I take it,   
is a Flex.  
  
I know *what* the   
Caged Candle Sings:  
a flashy temptation   
to the self-appointed elite  
who are being served   
and observed   
by staff  
who know this tune   
all too well.