A Night At The Trolley Stop (NOLA)
By isaleau
I'm sitting down.
The table scattered with the remains of other guests.
The ambiance disappointing.
Like little ants rushing off to do the deeds of their collective will.
I see masks.
Turn left or right.
Turn up or down.
The bitch in me screams for reality.
I want real people.
Not creations, facades.
I want to dip my hands into their souls, into their heads.
I want to feel their thoughts.
As if skin and matter, did not matter
I want.
But they still run around me like busy bodies, busy bees.
Buzzing away life in menial pursuits.
I want.
But they still are here
Unreadable… unknown to me.
(
geocities.com/poetrypillow)