STAIRWELL POEM #9

The images pass at the top of the stairs
before a scene of ordered squares.
Those faces that will betray nothing
they are hardly aware the clock is running.
Stunned into a dreamlike trance
they trace the steps of this urban dance.
Where only the idiots would dare to smile
they walk like the condemned’s last mile.
Telling themselves stories all the way
in hope they will be allowed to stay
Where only the mad will talk out loud,
alone, alone within the maddening crowd.
Then passing like the ripples on a stream
it’s easy to believe this is a dream.