my hands percolate a shuffle of smiles
that i paste on my face whenever needed.
i am a sadness, swishing around
in a subway of ambitious people.
look, they sing past me, wishing
with their bank cheques to be encashed
and overworking hands when
mine only own a pen, and a garden
of wrong syntax.
the night hangs limp,
void without her stars
and i pluck out another smile
and superglue it onto me
this time, for nobody
in particular.