Open house
Armed streets, a dissolute wash,
nuances we failed to keep,
motion evades in a sweep of red.
Feet march, they don’t saunter
or stop to watch & learn, to dawdle.
Eyes watch, cameras ever focused.
There is no private world for you.
Your life is theirs. The keys know it.
We grew up in ordinary anonymity,
untraced, unpictured, non-existent.
This exposure so expected, normal now.
You can stare into your only reflection here,
where the breeze blows your face in ripples.
Framed by branches, you’re unfreezable.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, January 18, 2021
