So many faces yesterday, a blur on the canvas of a life;
one in deep, seemingly sad thought; fast moving
in and out of existences they will never encounter.
A mustache sticks on top of a long blond beard unkempt,
Groucho’s no doubt, with the dark rims Buddy loved so,
and the long wig, blond, red, curly, so soft to the nape.
She lost her hat somewhere in the nearby of a coffee shop,
worried maybe, blurry as she cannot find another shape;
her skirt even, pleaded, plaid, can not enter a reality.
On steel sidewalks, boardwalks of bricks and tree limbs,
between oak, pine and fir pillars, assaulted by the many needles,
ghosts unable to find safety, yet far away from fear of others.
So many faces, and not one remains, soft, projecting love
ephemeral, they melt like Dali’s old clocks, so does the heart
of the one who stays still, eyes through the mist of hot drink.
Not even chatter, no clutter of coats, gloves, or umbrellas,
silence, as their long legs melt into a manufactured ground;
those faces may have been a mere mirage of a lonely mind.
Simple in the untouchable multitude, stifled by the thick
ambiance of missing thoughts, lacking breaths, non-beings,
he might be the apparition almost frozen in a fast-moving realm.