I wonder if he's praying
Sitting on the subway bench busily alone
He's layered and darkened
Torn and ripped.
But I think he's praying the way I should be right now.
The lights fly by of stations past and he looks up, hands folded in somber solitude.
So serene and at peace.
Why can't I be at that peace place?
I listen to Beck's lyric of the Lord not forsaking me in my Mercedes Benz and sit here with DvF luggage wondering if a graphic pattern on fabric really defines a person.
Who taught me this ethic?
I want to blame the media, the fashion mags I've taken an addiction to due to travel.
Maybe it was the bubble I blew?
Maybe it was the joy I dulled?
Maybe it was the love I thought I had, didn't, yet wanted so much.
He has an army surplus backpack.
I used to carry one of those.
Proudly, in fact.
Praying man has stopped praying and relocated to another seat.
For no reason other than he felt like it.
I want to know what stop he's leaving me on for the sake of the piece.
I may be disappointed.
No comments:
Post a Comment