In The First Place

I wonder what you do
on your walk to work.
Or maybe you drive.

I see your head
bopping along
with the rhythms
pumping through
your earbuds,
your muscles tensing
as the guitar screams
alongside the pounding bass,
drums beating
faster and faster
until it’s a part
of your skin,
music running
through your blood,
building castles
in your bones.

Here is what I see.
I wonder if I’ll ever
really know
how you walk
or wake
or worry.

I imagine you
in a white chef’s shirt,
sweat beading
on your brow.
The sun is always angry
in the south,
sending white hot rays
down to shatter
the serenity
of its hopeful citizens,
like you
who just wants a break
from the heat.
So you hurry
instead of stroll,
your feet matching time
with the drums.
The snare shakes
and you’re another step closer
to pay day
and another step further
from me.

These pictures of you
are all I have
and they never even existed
in the first place.

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3 thoughts on “In The First Place

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