trochee

The Morlock is a round, pale white ghost
in aviator sunglasses
a black polo shirt
two beepers, a phone and black velcro pouches
hide his belt like lichen on a branch
and a purple carabiner dangles a hundred jewels
that open a thousand locks.

He could be a night janitor, pale from sleeping days
but for two details:
long thinning hair, a string of afterthought on his back,
and a porkpie hat, carefully level with his eyebrows.
These two details serve as tokens of office,
signs of allegiance, badges of honor in
the libertarian under-troll brotherhood of bits.

I smiled to myself, admiring how clearly I knew him.
"You think you're such a rebel," I said in my mind
to the Morlock. "You're just part of the machine."

But when the bus came around the corner,
the street was full of shouting, signs and a cloth dragon,
going the other way, desperate anger,
saying "No!" and "not in our name!".

They climb the hill behind us,
hoping to take the freeway
hoping to be noticed,
hoping their resistance can mean something,
just like the Morlock.

And I, I didn't join them, I didn't shout "no",
I let them pass,
I stayed on the bus,
I went to work,
just like the Morlock.

From notes taken Thursday morning, 10/5