The Exchange

You are the secret exchange of briefcases
In the heart of this anonymous
Metropolis filled with the homeless and
Bankers and other gangsters in nice suits.

I am damaged microfiche. Plans snapped with
Haste and panache hurriedly traded down
The blind alley despite the burns and blurs.
Negatives crackling in the fireplace.

In the park normal people apparently
Free afternoons sit on benches and
Speak into invisible microphones
Our private desires later transposed.

Almost everyone will turn to sirens.
The emergency is the diversion.
Sit down apparently and in free will.

In the damaged afternoons everyone
Almost normal desires nice suits, panache,
Private plans filled with the fireplace. Exchange
In haste the negative blurs of this

Homeless, microfiche metropolis–
Crackling gangsters and snapped briefcases.
Despite the bankers, park on benches and
Turn into invisible blind people.

Speak in transposed microphones to sirens
And with the others of the traded later:
“I am, and our alley hurriedly burns.”
Anonymous heart, you are the secret.