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All There Is
Just streams of people,
like wet strings, hanging
from a translucent pink
roof, matted strings
of fragments of everyone,
the endless chatter about one person to the next, chains
of feelings associated with places and events, places,
social connections,
lots of gossip about who is what and why,
and which person hurt us, which person is kind, or
people who need help
and nice people and strangers who seemed nice
but we never met
or really knew them more than one short smile,
lonely people who were like us that we passed by like they passed us by with twin regrets,
the hard stone of unloved love,
and childhood friends like old photographs, playmates long lost in the mist,
and pushing firmly through these rubbery layers,
membranes of emotions,
taut and slimy, touching other sheets in parts,
then we notice places and scents, and sparks of childhood fears,
Enid Blyton stories on yellowed paper,
old films and old tinny sounds,
lovely pets long dead,
and countless meals,
and parents and basic desires for love,
a feeling of connectedness, to feel connected,
and wrapped in warm blankets, safe
wet warmness, a womb.
A womb.
And that is all there is.
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