Checkered on their thin figures
Enter the elevator giggling,
In a good mood, apparently.
It shows that they are having
But above all, the situation
Of being here, living life,
Owning their good fortune,
Their comfort, status, and
Just privilege in general.
They speak an accented English
To another, like gazelles,
To one of them, a good story -
Something she wants to pop
To her friend or co-worker,
A sign of wit, a spark of cunning,
That you know you could regret
Yet you still cannot resist,
And instead, you're proud of,
For the very sake of it being
"My hairdresser has cancer"
That shows only vestiges of mercy
But no real (or faked) compassion.
"And I don't want to think like -
who's gonna do my hair...? but..."
She shoots a quick glance back
To see if I am scandalized
Or entertained, or maybe both,
But does not have time to assess
Before the cabin is closed again.
So she does not want to think
Or does she? And think like what
Exactly? It surely crossed her mind!
Moreover, she jokes about it!
Does she mean that she does not want to
Think like that, but she cannot
Help it? Is this an admittance of remorse?
The accompanying laughter
Is just a nervous side effect of
Or it is much more of a confession
Of jaded cynicism, with a translucent
Effectively saying that she does think
That way, and it comes with
The job, the wealth, the pep of it all?
Essentially, she buried the woman
Already – or is it a man?
A twinkling gay boy with scissors,
Who showed interest in her
The life of whom is waning,
But served the only purpose of
Straightening those auburn locks?
Talks little and does her job impeccably well?
Death ensues, there’s no escape.
And the proliferation of cells,
No matter if they are in the breast
Or the pancreas, will not be stopped.
There is a void, an unfillable.
Because who is going to do
Even if she genuinely does not
Once it’s done, it’s done.
It is the utility that counts.
What is this whole story about?
It might as well be the most
Self-reflective statement ever made,
A realization of how little we mean
To each other, and the more
Remote someone is from you,
Keeping only what they give
To you. Or is it a coping mechanism,
To avoid grief and suffering,
And not go mad with all the terror
But we are not involved in
Directly - so she diminishes the
Anticipated death, to lower
The emotional investment of
I don’t know. And I don’t
Even want to pretend that
I was judging her very harsh.
After all, morality is about the acts,
Not the words, and she was
She entertained her companion,
I could not suppress either
My smile, even when they left,
That lingered – not at the joke,
And so inhuman, so bitter
And so intriguing. I hope she
Sends a card to the hospital,
Where the hair person convalesces,
And that the maintenance guy
On minus one will never know
When the lift doors re-opened.
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
baratheonpilled
areudirty
izzy806
kaledo-art
andulkaphoto
titsay