to a child in a business suit

as murmurs of shouting
from without stumble through
my windows, i resist the temptation
to walk again through half-lit
corridors, instead wishing to hold
on to traces of intelligence within, never
keeping my mind in its rightful place.
where are the questions i so easily asked
of you, once when you were a child in my arms, once
when the twitter of centipedes knocked n'once
on my doors?
the crackle of burning twigs, minute and crushed, now takes the place
of your breath, the hours of waiting for you to wake
up again, to afternoons of placid existence, when you would
speak so shyly of your dreams and hopes.

the marketplace of emotions lifts its shutters too soon,
i am not ready with my wares yet -- instead asking
to sleep in and dream of days gone by.
the murmurs muffle all signs of compassion and i hold on
to strands of the flailing whisks of words once spoken so boldly.