The Trial and Tribulation

In the human hive I live in, an old
woman circles an upstairs room,
round and round again for all to see,
though she cannot care. An open
window exhales the lonely male
banging on the door to be let in,
his girlfriend pleading to be left
in peace and alone to sleep.

Arriving home late from work,
the nurse with groceries in a bag
walks quickly past where I smoke,
eyes on the ground, unwilling to add
another illness to the heap
that might extinguish a hope
left untended by too little time
and too much pain.

A young woman stays in all day
and like a shut-in wears a ratty robe.
She has a camera and wi-fi
and she broadcasts eight hours a day,
tending to the flowers of predictable
desires that a credit card buys.

Few raise eyes to see the common ordeal.
Paper thin as the skin of an onion,
peel away the scab that protects the hour.
Hear thru the window a voice not meant
to be heard. Follow the leaky ceiling
to knock at an upstairs door that might
open to humdrum void or the mystery
you waited to solve for all eternity.

Say words that make sense of the day's remains,
but know that they tell as much about you
as they do about reality. Cash-driven or mad
with wild desire, the life you miss
in a few minutes can haunt or redeem you,
and you never know if it counts
or not, or even if counting matters,
but that just desire and choice make it so.

(c) Copyright 2012 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.