WOODEN-BOX BARRIER

Across from me
he drumbeats with fingers,
impressive fingers,
such great syncopated beats.

Between beats and arresting coughs,
he composes frequent melodies
on the seductive, electronic entertainment keys.

He cannot see me, unaware, substance-blind.
But I can see the top of his spiky head all the time.

Sometimes I can be selfish, unrepentantly so.
His ignorance keeps him here,
that and the wooden-box barrier.

If he knew what was transpiring here,
if he were in the know,
he would have no other instinct,
but to go.

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