look at him
stare all you like
but don’t touch the glass
watch how he attaches that hose
to his face
then takes it off, cursing
because he forgot to close the curtains
you resist the urge to laugh and say
smile you’re on candid camera
he sleeps now
for an hour, maybe two
then rips off the hose and tape
stumbles to the loo
and then back, repeating the ritual
the pale graph on the ceiling
projected by his imagination
shows the shallow, then the deep, then the R.E.M.
a 3 a.m. thirst awakens him once more
and he crunches pills for the soreness
takes another pee for insurance
now, a one hour wait
for his soul to take,
in the craziness of strange pictures and half heard conversations
and you who look
think not that he does not see you
this glass is two way
he means to borrow your brightness
but not take from you
just, please, touch your flame
to the lamp of this spirit.
you know not that he watches
and his camera is candid too.
Aremyfeetofftheground 