Talking Lungs

Everything used to be new once.
My face, a fresh handwritten book. Unknown letters and signs.
My lungs ready for unborn life, squeezed between sheets with delirious happiness.
The traffic lights always on green. The trains, on time, ready to
deliver coal and milk and the morning newspapers.
The night watchman, at the end of his shift, lighting a cigarette,
having just received a blank telegram.
New. I sit still to cover the war marks with fabrics and ash.

My forehead pressed against wood.
I observe how you drink tea on the other side, with precise, calculated sips.

And the world passes.
A beautiful, new cage for all of us.