Do people passing by on the street
Realize that they are a dancer in my solitary ballet;
Their stride falling in tempo with the music
That beats inside my head?
I’ve borrowed them, a little bit out of their lives;
A little extra to decorate mine, to orchestrate.
They’ll never even miss the part I’ve taken,
Clean surgical extraction, as they went by,
Fully engrossed in themselves.
They never suspect they have a more colorful
Personna, an alter-ego, unknown to them;
For a few moments perhaps, almost notoriously profane,
In the idle mysteriosities of contemplation.
But then they go on their way and are soon forgotten
Most ingloriously, to be replaced tomorrow
With whatever happens along.
We all have our secret ways of spending the hours.
Tout passe.

by Patti Masterman

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