we’re standing in the middle of a sprawling bazaar
outside central station where worker bees vibrate
between platform-fields and city-hives
all with tickets

with times, and destinations, and plans. yet we have
no ticket; we have no plan. we have a few tricks,
a few cells left over from college with their stamps
of approval.

we have one million eyes and velcro palms—like beggars
who greet us, singing on the train with a gouged gaze,
feeling their way through honeycombed carriages
with bony ankles

and blossomed hands, until faceless drones toss them
a coin from purses fat with societal honey.
we are no beggars, we’re simply
en route.

perhaps the only ones willing to acknowledge our own buzz—
while they assiduously fly from bed to pot to stair to platform
to chair—and back again, so that no one sees
their empty palms.

we reach that point when were told to fill—the belly, the time,
the mind itching for senseless purpose that we’re headed
somewhere, ceasing to realize that we’re
already there.

 

Relephant Links:

The Journey. {Poem}

~

Author: Kendall Strautman

Editor: Travis May

Photo: Author’s Own

~

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