I don’t know the people here
with their serious smiles and their faces
hard and dark, shuffling
along, dancing some slow-motion two-step
no one really seemed to take the time to learn
I watch their tentacled hands, flaky skin and grotesque knuckles
reaching toward their eyelids
pulling the lashes out
making wishes on the damaged parts
the leftovers that no one
ever wants
And their spines crawl with the weight of regret, toward the pinnacle of shoulders
Knees and elbows crumbling along the edges
revealing the rust beneath, stubborn
and scabbed, like a childhood bicycle accident
come round again
to tease, with the promise
of a scar
And the buttons have all come undone
and the mirrors watch them pass with other people’s eyes
and the bald acknowledgement of recognition
hangs like cobwebs
from their teeth.