No matter
what I say
my face betrays my heart
like a double agent
playing a triple.
In the outfield,
I am watching
waiting for your play.
Only happy in our games,
as your slave
a wholly owned subsidiary
of all of your possessions.
Lost in the ruble
of your home
amongst the books and papers
you constantly seek to escape
running from all that is real,
imagined,
between us
and it is these thoughts which plague me
as I stare out the window of my car
you ask me, familiar
"What?"
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