fat strips of sadness

in rugs of canopy

have settled their weight

unrolled themselves

out from the corners

and upon them i sit.

peering from this posture

watching these days, in scenes,

from the passenger seat

somewhere on the right side of my mind, I am

not sure who is driving, or possibly directing, but I am

watching

from in here, no windows

seem to roll down.

and so I turn up

to the stars

trying to read their lips or make

eye contact, as I can no longer

hear what they are saying, wondering

if perhaps they are too far

for me to hear them, but

they do seem at least

to be quite busy chatting

and blinking with themselves, and so

with a somewhat blurred amusement ( like

being underwater or in a gaseous state ) I

quietly attempt

various strategies to squint

and eavesdrop,

but am equally content to wait

until I am them,

too.