One of Many

In my room, my mind’s company,

Each other room alight with

The geniality and sound of many.

In my room, silent ears observe

Each and every tone;

Searing pork, cards thrown on the table,

Water running faster than Mum’s hands can,

Though they try,

And the Idiot Box.

Always the Idiot Box.

‘The boys are up!’ they say, with hope

And unholy, unjust prayers,

As their indifference to their differences draws them

Together like a vector

Or a dock to a dinghy,

Surrounded by the fullness and elation

That many can make.

And I am but one of that

Many.

That’s from my eyes, but from

Out there, it’s different for them. They are

It,

But they don’t feel it,

Not like me.

I’ve been gifted with observation,

To notice the thousands of ‘ones’

That make one.

To see Cupid’s potential presence and channel it

Into unbreakable bonds;

The cards, the coffee, Monopoly,

And the idiot box,

All links that mould it;

The un-chinked chain.

In my room, the un-acclaimed centre of it all,

I hear everything.

Time supplies measures for putting faces to footsteps,

And like a map, I can draw it in my mind

Despite the bony, opaque walls.

Words aren’t needed for what

Each tone supplies –

Proof of Love’s absence, and more

Backstabbing than poachers to boars.

Reminders of what man has made of man

And why this man needs

To change

To forget herself and be a glue for the flaws;

The chinks in the un-chinked chain.

As she does this,

The chain adheres to its uses –

Support, nexus, vulnerable security.

Because of these gaps

She bases her life on a Prayer

And a wish

That her ‘it’ will be unchangeable

And that the many will remain one.

But what does it matter?

That is only one person’s observations

Of being one of many.