are you here?

By Kat   

can you talk about the curvature of the plants that grow
from the cracks in the sidewalk you walk upon,
furtively, eagerly like the local children
who unravel sealed leaves containing first memories
or have they fallen from attention, only existing in peripherals

do you know the number of walls in your home by heart
without your tiptoeing through halls
eyes wide, somehow not knowing where the walls’ edges were
and where the opening to the world was
or must you look up, chin cocked, wondering what secrets you missed

could you muse about how the soil kissed by your feet
was fought over in a vicious war over things
that two men both wanted to wield
the gift of a sensitive trade, a most dangerous handshake
or have the soles of your feet only treaded, and never felt

could you tell me which direction you face when you are asleep at night
is it north, towards the flitting green lights
or is it a delicate equilibrium between south-west and
something else, a detail only a native could grasp
or do you fumble, unable to retrieve knowledge never considered

if you answered no to any of my queries, ask yourself:
are you here?

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