on this beautiful, busted planet:
brain people, body people,
and those who decline both.
Brain people.
The thinkers.
The ones who stare at ceilings
for answers in fissures.
Body people.
The movers.
The ones who work their bones
until the bones talk back.
And then the third crowd.
The large, invisible crowd.
The people who pick neither
mind nor muscle
and let the days hit them
like slow punches.
They aren’t dreamers.
They aren’t doers.
They drift,
quiet as bar smoke,
watching the world
fight its way through the hours.
Some nights I think they’ve got it right.
Some nights I think they’re already gone.
But the pews still fill,,
leaning against the same rail,
waiting for the world
to blink first.
