Lost In Crowds

I get lost in crowds: if I can, I remain invisible to the hungry mouths. I stay unapproachable. I wear the landscape of the urban chameleon. Scarred by attention. And quietly addicted to innocence. At starry parties where, amongst the rich and the famous I'm stuck for words: or worse, I blether with the best of them. I see their eyes glaze and they look for the drinks tray. Something in the drift of my conversation bothers them. So, who am I? Come on: ask me, I dare you. So, who am I? Come on: question me, if you care to. And why not try to interrogate this apparition? I melt away to get lost in this quaint condition. In scary airports, in concourses over-filled, I am detached in serious observation. As a pa*senger, I become un-tethered when I get lost in clouds: at home with my own quiet company. Herald Tribune or USA Today. Sauvignon Blanc or oaky Chardonnay. Asleep for the movie. Awake for the dawn dancing on England and hedgerows - embossed on a carpet of green. I descend and - forgive me - I mean to get lost in crowds.