Moon at Half Past Noon

Have you ever tried
to watch the sound of bare feet
Getting lost in the thick pile of a rug?
It’s like an old conversation
That found a hole in the pocket
of a worn-out shirt and decided to stay there.

On the table, the steam
from the clay cup
has simply stopped climbing.
Time has snagged,
Like a childhood key
that finally found its teeth
Inside a lock too rusted to turn.

These moments,
tucked between the loops of wool—
Don’t feed them to the glass eye on your wall.
There is a specific, private dignity
In scratching your own itch
Without feeling the need
to describe the sensation to a stranger.

Look at that vine clinging to the brickwork;
She isn’t “growing,”
she’s just loitering.
She spends her afternoons
watching her own shadow
trying to crawl across the floor
Without making a sound.

Funny, how everyone is out there
Hunting for themselves
in the roar of the street,
While back here,
in the silence of a closed room,
The person just sits by the window…
Wondering if the door
hasn’t been locked from the inside.