Pat the pockets, the hip
– those occupational OCD twitches –
keys, phone, wallet, ID
– all present and correct.
Then down the corridors of dusty sage and rose –
like once bright primary hues grown old,
into sad and muted tertiary tones.
(And am I greyer now too, than in the ID hanging on my hip?)
Bursting out from the dingy, recycled, rebreathed air,
into the blazing light, saturated with cicada song,
to blink at this world that I had forgotten,
was just the thickness of a wall away.
The cardax calls its curses after me,
but as the door slams shut,
cutting off its squeals of indignation at my departure,
I am already gone.