To lose a scarf

We were sitting in assembly,
masses of people tossing and turning
in the wave of maroon indifference.

Our souls asleep and our attention
scattered into bits and fragments that are high fiving
in subconscience apathy.

Some authority figure had lost her scarf,
it was black with green speckles
they told us.
Among the aisles of spinning-head parts
I call friends
there is a laughing
and no concern.

There is a laughing
and a stir in the immobile human categories.

And I am truly excluded in my sincerity
when shame passes my lips and
it is horrible,
but more horrible for my eyes to reach out of their sockets
to anyone of these
millions of friend counterparts,
and find nothing
but a shrug,
a stare,
a nothing.

Somewhere far from the bonds of
irrelevancy
is a lady who now sits cold-
from no scarf
and hurt-
from no sympathy.

Eyes to wonder and caress this disappointing day time
so that I may find myself
just a green speck in the black
wondering how important the issue of who lost it is
to the people that I am too sure of loving.

I may find myself displeased by those who care not for the missed
but rather,
for who it is that is missing.

If the maroon whirl pool can swallow you up
and all your sense numbed
then perhaps,
you wouldn't be the one drifting out of their seats
and away from the absence of emotion
to fill a slot
and hide all the scratches
on your very own neck.

Bet you wouldn't want to lose
any kind of scarf and be laughed
at (or about).