Paper cup full of hope.

From the man in the window.

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THE MAN IN THE WINDOW.



We sit slumped,

waiting

for the man in the window

to place a paper cup full of hope

into our anxiously-twitching hands.



We gulp down its contents, 

before collapsing again to our slump.

Though only for a second...or 2...or 3—

Then, we wake up; come alive.

Shrug the world's problems from our shoulders;

scrunch them tightly before they're thrust into the bin.



We're free to dance, laugh; speak loudly!

We scramble to get together and celebrate,
our newfound humanity.



Internal clocks tick quieter, 

as we party beneath a sunny sky,

a human conglomerate of ignorant joy.

We begin to finally lose our awareness, 

of what has recently lorded so dominantly over our lives, of late:



                         Time.



This new skin, however, 

never quite gets the chance to feel like home

all too familiar clouds 

quickly reappear in our peripheral vision.

Collective swirls of blackening grey.

Watching our party from afar; waiting.



We try to push on, but—

fear taints our conversations; 

lowering excited voices, to a whisper.

Caution seeps into the room.

Joints swell and begin to creak;

our waltzing becomes strained hobbles



We shakily sip anxiety from champagne flutes,

as we do our best to keep celebrating.

Dry cake crumbles onto fine china beneath our forks,

moistened only by our now-flowing tears.

We cry as we realise that this party, 

—where moments before had just hosted joy and hope and freedom—



Now exists to remind us of the all too familiar, 
looming blackness.



Suddenly, we freeze; paralyzed by a collective realisation,

Turning to the record player (in the corner with joyous tune);

we watch in muted horror

as a large black dog bites clean through its power cord.

Music no longer dulls our screaming thoughts of self-hate.



The dog barks twice, then it begins;

the marquee overhead disappears in the sudden wind.

We're exposed.

Crackling clouds rush from the horizon towards us.



Like birds in storm,

we scatter for shelter.

Blindly rushing with desperation;

to where we feel safe.



Back to the man in the window

Back to slump in our chairs 

Back to wait for as long as we need,

to receive our hour of freedom again;

gift-wrapped in a paper cup.



Lest we get lost in the storm forever;

again.



-S-2024
Written from Hospital, Christmas 2024.