Their World

A  hand. Wrist and fingers protrude from a white shirt cuff protruding in turn from a suit jacket sleeve.

The hand holds an amber-colored liquid and ice cubes in a round thick-bottomed glass.  A cadenza ahead, dimly lit.

 I need no more to know it is a house
And know there is a car of course garage
Perhaps from porch light I can see the street
And see no other lights on streets like these
Of house
Garage and cars
And clean

Their world comes in through my TeeVee
I watch the broken segments of their day
See the way they dress that is not me
And patterns in their lives that aren’t mine

 But what I see is nonetheless not real
No more than any image on a screen
Lock-step laid-out lives play through
Choreography in motion to a script

 I never really learned my lines
Misheard perhaps misunderstood or strange
I could not fit the clothing for the part
Never quite the me I was assigned


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