We wait.
Watch.
Ignore.
Every unfamiliar face
another mouth
through which guilt
pronounces us.
We write our lives,
you bet,
then mail them
to strangers:
each confession
folded,
sealed,
postmarked
by a frozen smile.
Nothin’ comin’.
Not quick.
Not slow.
Only another day
to owe.
And by God,
we’ll ship our souls
in boxes and bags
across seas,
worlds,
times.
Never free.
Someone must sign
for the madness
we cannot bear alone.
But tears and tears,
water and rips,
betray the seams.
Every package leaks.
Every address
returns us
to the witness.
You.
Not judge,
not jury,
just the key.
Quiet.
Silent.
Tired.
A mirror
holding our face
under oath.
Related reading: Change Is the Facility of God and Shadow / Silhouette / Sorry.
Originally published October 17, 2014. Revised and expanded September 4, 2026.
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