At each end of this ten month long tether
Is a universal, impersonal place where
Nothing can stop to hesitate or enjoy the view.
People stop and stand still, but keep moving
In reflections of windows to shops
That satisfy vices in outrageous quantities.
Colorful animals stuff themselves and scatter
Into corners and crevices, some empty and old
Or covered in dust because of the cold.
Others see it as a glorified garbage bin
To discard and abandon living trash,
Never staying long and never looking back.
But now, once again, as often before,
I use it to open the proverbial door,
And feed that starving part of my soul.
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