illusions of
escape velocity
for us became
placebos like
a gentle darkness
gumshoes into
disarray.

© Ben Ditmars 2014

IN the newspaper office-who are the spooks?
Who wears the mythic coat invisible?

Who pussyfoots from desk to desk
              with a speaking forefinger?
Who gumshoes amid the copy paper
              with a whispering thumb?

Speak softly-the sacred cows may hear.
Speak easy-the sacred cows must be fed.

Shades on your eyes and you think that they're spies who are watching through curtains and twitching their certainties about who you are.
A bit further, too far and the gumshoes, par for this course.

Invisible ink makes you think you're not seen by the ice cream man in his MI5 van, but you're taped by the score and the many or more will sit on the church pews of offices, loaned them by wise men and fools who drool over Marlowe and they think this is Harlow or Harlem, but
we know it's Salem and they're coming to burn us.