In Plato’s Cave

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.

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