The Suits

I turn your words over in my head

Like I slowly turn the pages of an interesting book.

I hold them delicately in my thoughts

As if the word fragile were an understatement

To me this is utterly fascinating

And immensely perplexing.

 

Because you see, tick tock goes the brain clock

And all of my thoughts have a schedule.

They are nicely suited business men who are catching the subway to their job

Tock tick, the brain clock has to work

Or chaos erupts from the suits

They clamor and fuss around each other

Their schedule has become unknown.

 

So if my brain works smoothly

And all are sitting dully on the subway

Then what are your words?

What are your words among the suits and the lack of noise?

Why are they set apart from my other regularly scheduled thoughts?

But even more, how do they calm the chaos?

 

The suits stop and stare at the single violinist

Losing themselves on the subway

They are soothed somehow and if the subway broke down?

They wouldn’t notice.

Tick tock goes my brain clock

But the hands have stopped

And all I hear is music.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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