To Be More Human

To sit in ambush, to lie in wait,
Simply to set down within someplace,
With the implication of hiding,

Since you’re not sitting atop a spot
But sitting in it—you’re suspicious,
And those who see you divide themselves

Between the ones who worry you’re lost
And the squint-eyed convinced you’re lurking,
You ant lion, you trap-door spider.

Now, how to say you’re neither of these,
Not innocent nor insidious,
Just someone in the quiet posture

Of sitting wayside, not to deceive,
Much less to lure, not lost, not even
Waiting? What in hell are you up to?

Tell them, when they trouble to ask you,
Approaching warily or brusquely,
That you’re merely impersonating

A wayside shrine for the forgotten
Spirits, a wayside memorial
For a tragedy yet to happen.

You sit in the middle of the world
And on the edge of the way’s traffic
To show how all middles are edges,

How how every margin is a center.
Or just tell them whatever you want,
Whatever words pop out of your mouth.

Look surprised. Hold up a book or phone
And wave it about as if to show
That you’re busy with some normal thing.

You know there’s no reason to be here,
But you also know that others feel
The need for there to be a reason,

Some humanly social intention,
To spy, to pounce, to wait for some help,
To meaningfully relate to them.

Relate nothing. Look flustered and laugh.
Don’t get dragged into explanations.
You don’t do this to be more human.