I’m sitting looking out of Plato’s cave.
Instead of watching shadows on a wall,
I watch the people passing by the glass
in T-shirts, shorts, and sandals while they eat
gelatos. They’re distorted by the glass,
and I can’t tell if I am watching pain
or laughter, arrogance or loneliness.
I know that what I’m seeing isn’t real.
It’s what I hope or wish was real. It is
imagination working over time.
Perhaps I’ll see more clearly in the night
when there are no distortions caused by light
reflecting off of this distorted glass
that keeps me separated from the world.