i get tired of the people
red yellow black white
you are precious but not mine
i dont know the people
you’re young are you married
you’re old is there passion
what is your preferred toothpaste
rich or poor, can we calculate your sum
(as if sum were humanity).
could they but only answer me.
are my ears blocked
i cant hear.
or maybe I am not listening.
often i err toward leaving.
leave the world of heart to enter the toke
of me myself and i
and take my shallow breath to- inevitably-
face the people like I’m not one of them
face the mirror like I’m the only one.
and pray to God thats winning.
but here i find a savior
call it the produce of people watching.
call it grace.
call it planted.
call it innate.
the young man sitting diagonal me
glancing up, eye contact.
“we are equally intriguing”
maybe its my hair
maybe its the sparkle in my eyes.
maybe its his book
maybe his blue jacket
maybe its the smile
the square readers on the black womans face.
white teeth biting bottom lip into a small fold
maybe its her years wearing that ring of gold
maybe its her laugh when he says a joke.
between his electric blues, her teeth on brown lips, and my tendency to stare and overthink before i board our flight that
i shall live at least the next introspective hours convinced of the people.
here ye, here ye
you are not alone.
you’re not alone I’m in it too.
i see it i feel it
i dont always know what to say or do but
i know its our flight
the flight of the people