A body at rest, remains
at rest. Don’t come here to rest,
but come. Come though they’ll tell you,
You can’t stay here. They’ll tell you,
Public walks are only public when
you're walking past them. Don’t come
here just to walk, or rest, though you’ll want to
walk and rest. You’ll want to lay your head
to rest on the hard concrete, and look up
at the cold gray sky, the sky getting
this concrete wet. And you’ll wonder
how soon before they’ll tell you,
The air’s not yours. The water that falls from it
isn’t yours either. The oak trees and prairie grass,
we took for these towers, were long ago bought
and paid for. They won’t like you to think
such thoughts, and they’ll ask you to go
home without them, if you have a home.
Why would you want to be
so uncomfortable? We can’t protect you here.
Comfort is all they can offer. Comfort
and security, at least for a little while longer,
as long as you don’t get restless.
When the rest goes, a body will move,
not on, but in unexpected directions.
This body might even ask herself
more unsettling questions.