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They’re Small
by Tyde

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They’re small.

Not as small as ants but small enough to be considered bugs
little and useless others would put it

Squash ‘em, spray ‘em, annihilate ‘em!

Sun beats down on their heads
Wind rustles through their clothes
they scurry back and forth.

Office people all around
Women tottering in high-heels
men striding out in Italian shoes
Dresses, jackets, pants, ties and scarves all swirled together in this city spectrum
The green of the trees that have found a niche
in this world of concrete
the grey asphalt splotched with oil
the gutters filled with muck

All the windows are reflective
you can’t see in
People trying to block out the horrors
of the world by a thin piece of silicon
It protects you only from the prying eyes

Nothing more, nothing less.

Venetian blinds and curtains
everyone is doing it
No one wants to see; no one wants to know

Cars stream by
little colourful worms that twist and turn through the streets and lanes
Satellite dishes and big cranes dominate the skyline
Like huge mechanical gods they look down upon their subjects
anticipating the next disaster

A siren breaks the silence
even I can hear if through this glass
The traffic splits as the white van cruises by
The crane swings round to check on its handiwork
and then it goes back to work brooding above the buildings

This plastic chair is uncomfortable and I shift to the ledge
It’s a better view and I like the way my stomach protests at the height

I want to be big.

© 14/6/1998