people watching.
something like a half-remembered dream.
the sickly sound of cars screeching along the path,
innumerable ballerinas just a touch out of sync.
one man sitting uncomfortably on the phone,
another just beyond peering too close for comfort.
the entrance opens and jangles,
the clear sophisticated indication of visitors.
a forgotten house key dropped in the corridor,
covered in dust grime.
a young girl picks it up and places it in her pocket,
admiration for the simplicity of discovery.
so childish and predictable.
churlish, am i,
for observing the masses in their feeble livelihoods.
mother said it’s rude to stare at the
people watching me.