The Imp
By Big Frank Dickinson
The imp asks for an out;
A shout ignored in the waiting crowd,
And the guy with the thing on his head,
Mumbles to nobody about the outrage
He cannot accept.
The leaves respond to an
Unseen push and loudly whisper
A response that soothes you, but
Troubles the tree.
The masks seen from the outside
Are seen as for another;
The “interhumanity” –
Works for us . . . or does it?
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