the trouble with empathy 

the trouble with empathy

i feel all of it.
the last stare of the lonesome boy,
the tug of the homeless.
the way things go when nothing works at all.

in a mall, it's like a wall of tvs,
satellite ones, 300 channels.
no one speaks the same language
and everyone is understood.
there is much too much noise.

i try to avoid the crowded places.
everyone is afraid.
they don't talk about it--
they make a smell,
like ten thousand plants cut open.

some people think that smells like dinner.
i know better.
we all are way too open--
some cracked, some shining.

once i stopped listening.
twenty days i kept everything in me
closed, like a fist.
nothing entered, and nothing hurt.
i was so very very lonely.