I
hide crouched in a toilet cubicle until you
lock
the doors, secure the building,
and
return to wherever it is you came from.
Solitary
now, I will wander,
my
chance to view each room as they should be beheld,
clear,
silent, with moonlight silvering the floors.
Burglar
alarm silent I creep across the parquet,
socks
shining a trail none will notice.
All
this I explore until dawn brings cleaners
sleepy
from dreams of better times
[when
they could remain in their beds].
As
they enter, I slip out, to resume someone else's life
George Adamski's in the Pontiac's back
seat,
the
driver is from Saturn, next to George sits
a
Venusian, who bigs up the mundane, claims
to
love tv and be just like we are.
He
feeds the con man a white bread vision, the solar system
as
some banal B-movie town.
Old
George for his part, keeps silent about
the
flying saucer he's building in the garage.
You
see, he needs something people will buy in to,
when
he stands in front of paying audiences,
not
even his honest eyes can quite swing it.
So
he will make that chicken incubator heat
lamp
housing fly on film. The Venusian
doesn't
care that his world is a nightmare of
green
house gasses gone made. That'll come out later,
-just
tell the earthlings what they want to hear
and
everyone's happy, save Amelia Earhart. Who is either
a
housewife hitting the highballs at eleven am. Or
an
incomplete set of bones on a Pacific island.
You
takes your pick-some realities are much more fun than others.
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