not knowing where to hide

isn’t exactly the same as being transparent,

though sometimes it looks the same,

like holding onto a light bulb

while pretending to be luminescent

lonely brunches spent reading meandering

news stories that seem to all end in the same tragedy

while the horizon bleeds fresh air

and kids with crazy glue run around

the tables and play pranks by tying shoelaces

to utensils and calling it fun

Fred Aiken Writing