at the moment when the light of day flattens
I saw you turn your face to the daywilting sky
at the empty hour of evening transition
the palms of your hands opened upward
rough bitten, they hold a burdening plea,
a wordless request from a beaten down heart,
your need for serenity in affirming validation
through the collective din of your psychosis.
In a moment of surrender, I watch you tuck them back into your oversized pockets and walk on in search of a bowl of hot soup at the end of the never ending waking day. The voices are hungry. The crowds float by like a backdrop to your own world.
No one is paying attention. No one hears except you. You can't filter them out. They can't filter you in. Who is lost?