There is a silence about this morning.
An unspoken acceptance of the beginning of another week.
The newspapers are being read.
What does this new 7 day stretch bring with it?
Who died that we will never know?
What should we eat that we may not like?
Which country is in trouble that we cannot help?
And we stumble along, feet, hands, hands, feet,
to the destination of our slavery.
The place that binds our body and soul.
We are not free from it but for this moment
when we are all splayed in our morning fashions:
still dreaming, hugging our hopes, protective of our belongings
and reading what we cannot relate to.
The tracks glisten with wet steely sound
as the train rolls along. Jerking
and shaking to a stop. And from my perch,
the bustle is seen, and yet, barely heard.
Scratches, itches, sniffles and coughs.
Dislocated human noises. They melange
into a deep silence. A silence of the herd.
The flock gets on and gets off.
An automatic switch
of the seats of hopeful despair.
A new week has gained on us and yet
no one could have seen it coming.
Chewing, drinking, humming, bleating.
We flock to where we cannot exist.
At least not where we want to be.