THE WRITER AS THIEF

In blindness there is sound.

In sound there is reverberation.

In reverberation I find direction.

The sound of cars stopping,

            Passing me by--

In the cacophony of voices,

Words and phrases disconnected

From all the traffic of tongues,

Stories surrounding me.

            Some are lies.

            Some are true.

It's not up to me to discern

Which is which?

I just capture them,

Preserving them for

A future page,

A line fragment.

Wherever a string of words

Tangles in my mind,

Snagging my elusive attention,

There will, someday soon,

Be a place for these transient

Residents to leap into

Someone else's life.

Beware the silent passerby:

She's observing you,

Taking notes--

She's stealing from you

And you don't even know it.

Copyright (c) 2013 by the author