Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

It’s the key, and the unlocking.
It’s the face staring down from the 13th floor
while we look up, squinting at the sun.
Everybody’s on the run
and looking behind them,
knocking on closed doors
while looking through the hole
and wishing it was locked.
Still staring down from the top floor
at the ants in the street,
wanting to jump
but unable to open the window.
Too many people milling about,
too many people whispering, thinking
that they are shouting, and
wanting to open the door.

We’re all broken machines,
crude and mean,
trying to dismantle each other
to see how we work,
each of us a genius in our own right.
We are all rabbits or vultures,
switches and levers.
We are sometimes tools
who need to repair
to feel like they are still good,
and then we are killers and devourers
and animals sniffing
and creeping in circles.

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