Mural
MURAL
The blurs of motion,
of steps treading so quickly,
pretty faces ugly ones too,
all blur together
and cascade into a mural
on the shop window.
The mural changes constantly.
I see curiosity bud
with the dews of a thousand glances.
An arm indifferent
to winter’s one hundred caresses.
A sneeze with ten droplets of the clearest snot,
emanating from a Helen of Troy.
And one me,
sipping coffee I can’t taste,
sitting in a creaking chair,
hands cold not from winter
but from lack of warmth.
And I am the mural.
But I am also painting the mural.
But I am also watching the mural.
But I am never in the mural.
To have someone else paint with me,
watch with me,
be the mural with me.
This will not even help me, for I am never in the mural to begin with.
So I get up and walk out the door, and I stand outside the shop window briefly.
I am still not in the mural.
