Number 48

Take the tram into town and you just might meet

the man who reads the auras of the people in the street.

 

“Sit down beside her,” he’ll say

with a slight smile spread across his face

as he points to the beautiful brunette

with a handbag perched on her lap,

staring out the window

at the city blessed by rain.

 

Beyond his grey-blue eyes

and that warm and honest smile

lie pages and pages, and miles and miles

of textures and ribbons

and little nodes bent in Time.

 

Who knows what they hold,

whether they’re young or whether they’re old,

whether they paint pictures or tell stories,

or whether they offer nothing at all:

 

Somehow it seems nice to think,

whatever the case, he has something to give.

Whether it’s truth, whether they’re dreams,

or whether they’re just some hidden fantasies.

If nothing less, he made me smile

before the bell chimed and signaled my time.

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