Parade

The horror in large crowds
lies in its mass anonymity.

You endure the cold,
the fluttering of hands & feet behind you,
the brushes on your coat—
the apologies.

You are an adult.

The body heat & mob breathing—
all of it like a symphony
of collected life—
shouldn't bother you.

You shouldn't fear the sapling
pushed next to you—
his small bones
& proud winter coat
shouldn't evoke a feeling
of being drowned.

As you see an ocean of bodies
forcing themselves towards you,
all faceless & walking in unison,
you shouldn't feel like running—
dashing into an alley
& hiding like they're a thunderstorm.

But you do—
you panic & raise your voice
to the height of a small child—
you force through the crowd
gripping a hood
like it's your mother's hand.

You stop breathing—
that malignant air of togetherness
& collective joy—
until you break off into a small square
& fumble for a cigarette
to calm the idiocy inside you—
that wish to be alone
& away from all the noisy chatter,

safe inside a panorama
where everything is dead & stuffed
except you.

Where the silences wraps around you
like a security blanket
& you can be safe,
alone with the dead—
the company you're best around.