Why I Snicker While I Watch The News

They tell us
about a world
of pressed suits.

The footfalls are quiet on
industrial carpet or
the high heels clack on marble.

Thoughts are germ-free,
conversation held into the narrow chinks
of daylight, avoiding dreams.

Where I live it's always wet
and shadows block most of the sunshine.
My conversation is about secrets turned inside out,

not as in sociology. Journalists miss me.
They find my body leaking.
They can't address me in the plural.