Thousands of pin prick lights
eyes, above, everywhere I look.
they are, Watching me.
Harder down they stare, Fumble
in the shower is the water, hot or cold.
I feel some thing, looking down, incompatible.
These feeling go back along long ways.
Window eyes, they shop, goods are never bought.
The mannequins do talk amongst themselves,
when you are gone.
Is It... This poem has recreated my very first visit 'downtown' when I was a child. The lights, the silent stares from the 'fixed' mannequins. The raindrops against the windows as we, as children, walked along Main Street. Very interesting your poem. Nice.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Oh man, I love this type of writing. Does a tree still fall in the forest if nobody's listening? Yes; and the mannequins talk after hours, in the dark. Love the way you've fastened your words into this. Another favorite to read again. There's just something about dark stores, where people gather at light; so abandoned by night..it has always obsessed me. I'm almost writing a poem in this comment. That's the effect your words always have on me.(smile)