You can send me a message from the train,
that carries you past rivers from the window,
a car filled with people saying nothing,
where low whispers draw out the frowns,
and a laugh is charged with capital punishment
as no one should speak to strangers,
or they will be stared down
by the dead people who go into the city.
I will not embarrass your daily role
that packs you into moving dioramas,
where you sit in silence, silence being the golden token
and go missing in the back streets of your memory.
Getting lost in private thoughts that as yet do not offend them,
you watch those graffiti-spiced retaining walls go by…go by…go by.
You are on both sides of the glass, the curator and the curated,
so it might be o.k. to message me, on your way to the chocolate factory.
November 11th, 2013