There’s people outside,
the thrashing and bustling kind.
Nowadays they seem to blur
like shadows in dithyrambic dazes.
We shiver at the thought
of joining them out there,
so we watch through
sectioned sickle panes.
And the days that go for us,
are punchy plucks of a
gut string.
Yet we raised our chins real high,
peeked out through the slats
and into their beady reddened eyes.
Let’s see what it sounds like outside
I thought of that earlier today:
what happens if the strings don’t
pluck in the same old way
