Gazing once again
che minchia di lavoro
at the faces in the street
in the bar at the restaurant
bloody Starbucks or on the bus
at the million faces this one
certainly she is a fine poet
he’s a dancer somewhere another poet
that one a spy in another’s service
over there a child filled with wonder
but it’s a recalcitrant world
you know none are actually that
already the child is largely stunted
the spy only spies on his neighbour
the dancer stumbles everywhere
and she who looks like your poet
(yes the one who will be the poet
this one who should serve us all)
eventually only serves herself
I know volcanoes don’t rest
the sun shines the dread wind blows
you wonder why I bother.
© 2013 Rob Schackne
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