There they stand
at all waking hours
peering through the window to my soul
What makes them stop?
What makes them pause?
What is it about me?
that stirs their soul enough
that the gnawing fugue which keeps them scurrying about
is drowned out for a brief moment
by the fully summoned orchestra?
And when was it that I stopped asking
‘What is it about me?’ instead of ‘why not?’
Why not these others?
Why not she to my left?
For she silently breathes
and takes all her meals
through the roof and her leaves
Why not he to my right?
ever watchful eye
with interface and screen
Why not those in the center?
What was it they saw
as they exchanged windows themselves
without showing their awe?
Then one day
a different sort of day
small ones that did not look my way
They stopped for trees
Yet still I remain
flat image in frame
They see me as a drop in their dazzling ocean
but there are brief moments
where old envious scolds teach the young conductor
that to perfect the symphony they must banish all musicians
Now I know
with a gaze so free
they don’t look right left inward
but stay fixated on me
I stir in for a moment
The thing they used to be
Before the yoke rode blood-striped backs
with eyes taught not to see