a poem

Morning Coffee
I feel like an ink drawing of myself
on a wall in the coffeeshop,
with dead rock stars, their downcast eyes, confident hands;
a catastrophe lurking somewhere behind silent contempt,
remembering only vaguely,
and no longer human, icons no more.
Ink lines scratched and tracing
what was once but is no more real than their drawn expression.
I am alive, framed and hanging over the discussions of housewives
on a Sunday morning,
long-haired and searching,
pushing their way through the glass.
No one here gets out, at all.