Brittle. hollow boned.
And this kaleidoscopic life
Seen atop the wall, where raindrops
clung to windows like ghosts and dull lights bounced
back to the pedestrian lives below.
Between the twinkle of the spectacle and the celestial dome was you.
You perched atop the wall
like a cat, observing, recording
the motley crew of midnight faces
Below. But you never managed to cut a word in.
Those people don’t obey the two-minute principle.
They talked at you, muttering heretical thoughts,
confided in you, blathering implausible dreams,
Touched you. Hugged you. Took comfort in you.
Ruffled the plastic that kept you cold.
Around you their drama unraveled.
Wrathful hands snatched you from atop the wall,
Taut fingers dug deep, rough nails bit,
Soft palms that that turned to rock,
Flung pieces.
And suddenly you could see.
Now you were cast among them.
You gave them the soft bits cradled between the clavicle
and they devoured it
because your staccato was new,
and because of the curious ways you stacked up words
like you ain’t supposed to; because these are not your words
after all.
And they found their own rhythm stale.
And so, you would be a subject in their show.
If only a scoundrel.
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