Patter of Feet

No matter how clear the terrestrial sky,
the psych-ward forecasts fog.

A chemical grayness that impedes light
from occupying patient eyes.

A film that coats tongues, stuffs noses,
and withdraws fingertips from sensation.

Barbarians in three-piece suits
maintain a comfortable spyglass distance

that speaks for their wary tongues
You are not human.

The midnight hallway prowlers
halt their journey at large lounge windows,

search the sky for constellations and spiritual guidance,
but someone rearranged the stars.

copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

2 thoughts on “Patter of Feet

  1. Hello Kenneth, I try to like your poems and am not allowed to. I wonder if there are others who have been inconvenienced by this. So I’ll say it. I like this one. D


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