Would it be wrong

to run

among these marching masses

to sing and laugh

at nervous floundering hands

on sweat-stained plastic leather

to sigh and say

I don’t have to keep a grimace?

 

Would it be wrong

to cry

and grow to great dimensions

small enough to creep beneath a door

instead of knocking?

 

Would it be wrong

to grasp hold of the telephone

and scream

in answer to its scream

and force a question

no one wants to hear?

 

Would it be wrong

to shake Pandora’s hand

and fly

only to return with tales

astounding with originality?