The virtues of unemployment

like an ethereal scavenger sweeping
over the litter that collects in tiny piles
on the architecture of the political
those made-up faces and faces that are beyond repair;
I see the epic narratives missed by literatures
in a scar, in the plain tea quick-fix
the marshmellows and poisons
the varnishing that makes palatable
ineffective and yet bitter medicines
prescribed by these quack doctored times;
I stand at a window without a frame
by a petti kade too humble for name
but which is sentinel to monotonies unnoticed
same faces at the same time
same voices asking for the same things
same greetings, same smiles and same conversations
layered over the unspeakable
in the courtesies that say nothing
but are warm nevertheless and true as well
kohomada? vahiy da? Ennam....
'We are one,' I tell myself
'We are solitary people,' I also add,
take a breath and think of you.
Life is good.