Lax

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.
mutual examination,
quickly determining
“we are equally intriguing”

maybe its my hair
maybe shoes
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.

maybe

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

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Hanna

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Stir-crazy traveler experiencing a quarter-life crisis. I'm currently in Australia getting inspiration by the ocean, typing this from my friend's slouchy white couch.Aus has loud birds that sound like children crying- quite distracting. the coffee is the best in the world, but I've let mine get cold as i overthink what should be in this online bio.
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