Polite But Vacant Smiles

The frustration you feel eroding that
final plank of sense and solidity becomes
somewhat less heroic. Like chivalric
intent it is locked in the rusted trunk of
a wrecked and wretchedly derelict pink
1964 Chevy Impala and you’re again 19.

Glory of the day is still real – but no-one
knows you, you feel betrayed; foundations
of what you believed you were are etched
away. The sense is similar to being less each
second, each minute until empty and denial
is complete – you have disappeared.

The polite but vacant smiles confirm what
you know, this invisibility to eyes is real. I
came, you say, to read words which would
raise spirits and give glory but you don’t see
me. Thus my words are emptied of meaning
and I must leave. Try to remember me.
© 11 February 2008, I. D. Carswell