The voiceless have built a city within this city, structures embedded within the grid, pulled together by patchwork—cloth, tent, sawdust floor and plastic sheet. You’re there, measuring your life in coffee spoons, on that same street, right next to them. You see them working on bicycles, bus passes, rides. You see them through half deserted streets, a forager still intact in their genes. They hunker down with their wildness, lingering in pools that stand in drains. They follow you like a tedious argument. And what do you do? You come and go talking of Michelangelo, with the evening spread out against the sky. No worries, there will be time. You’ve still time to prepare a face for those you meet. You’re perfectly fine with disturbing the universe and asking “Do I dare?” You’ve time to settle your head on a pillow and say “That’s not what I meant at all.” Not a problem. It’s perfectly OK to be misunderstood. Nothing will come of it, except some literary theory.
But wait…You think you hear them.
Bite it off with a smile.