warped mind

to be talking
when talking is over and done with
like beating down the beaten path
again and again...

my life is in a cubicle
i refuse to recognize a world beyond
every chink in the wall, i hurry to close.
and then i'm sitting, thinking how secure i am,
how insulated from the big bad world.
i finger my pens lovingly,
count the number of roses on my teacup
elaborately plan my cup of tea...
the event was when i stepped out to throw the waste
and saw this woman running...
i stood for a while watching her run.
i did not want to know the end of that story.
it provides me fodder for days.
perhaps she ran from an attack?
a harassing husband?
a lost child maybe?
had she lost her life?
was it the train she missed?

I build each story carefully
with my bricks of assumptions.
no, I do not want to know what happened....

I figure out the time by the length of the shadow on the floor
the hooting siren tells me it is 6 pm
time to get started on that ritual of going to bed...

glo