It is as if she is lost, <br />while on the piano she plays a fugue <br />and sick of arguing feeling like a rogue <br />she plays on as if she’s at an outpost <br /> <br />where living cost <br />do not matter and every colleague <br />do not scatter away, as if she has the plague <br />and she’s near to the end, almost <br /> <br />finished, when the phone starts to ring, <br />with its consistency shattering her peace <br />and she answers and listens to the chattering, <br />looking through the window to find quick release <br />from the building tension, she notices that it’s spring <br />and the voice trails on and on, like a spreading disease.<br /><br />Gert Strydom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-is-as-if-she-is-lost/
