I stare at the women on Facebook
in their bathing suits and Sunday best
Why don’t they look like that in real life?
The church man
walks across my parking lot
and gets a wave from the maintenance man.
It can be difficult to look your best
but he pulls it off with suit, vest,
tie, and black shoes.
and his bald head shines like a light bulb.
When I do it, it feels unnatural—like a costume.
I wonder at the mysterious lives of these people
and who they are, underneath.
If you enter
you will see
but that’s not who I am.
Inside my cabinets are boring books
but a revelation to me.
Unlike people who place them on prominent shelves
I keep mine
just like the ideas in my head.
one or two out,
from time to time
into a black world
into the silence.
It could be
there are no mysteries—
that people live-out who they are
on the surface of things.
What comes from nothing
is the source of my power
like the goose that lays golden eggs
I can’t be cut-open for more.
The stories come a-squawking
in the morning
There’s one more.