The Suits


I turn your words over in my head
Like I slowly turn the pages of an interesting book.
I hold them delicately in my thoughts
As if the word fragile were an understatement
To me this is utterly fascinating
And immensely perplexing.

Because you see, tick tock goes the brain clock
And all of my thoughts have a schedule.
They are nicely suited businessmen, catching the subway to their job
Tock tick, the brain clock has to work
Or chaos erupts from the suits
They clamor and fuss around each other
Their schedule has become unknown.

So if my brain works smoothly
And all are sitting dully on the subway
Then what are your words?
What are your words among the suits and the lack of noise?
Why are they set apart from my other regularly scheduled thoughts?
But even more, how do they calm the chaos?

The suits stop and stare at the single violinist
Losing themselves on the subway
They are soothed somehow and if the subway broke down?
They wouldn't notice.
Tick tock goes my brain clock
But the hands have stopped
And all I hear is music.

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