Alien

On my bench down the stairs,
I create these small aliens
To release them freely,
Dropped from high exploding
Like ink-filled balloons.
Most people never notice.

None of them are Shakespeare.
Most aren't any good,
Yet every one of them
Reveals something
That's beautiful or pure,
Although they speak a strange language
Few decipher.
Some just rudely scoff
And some are lovely
But remain with oddest angles,
Uneasy,
Off,

And though they're not exactly
Visiting from space,
They don't belong here.
Even when disguised,
They're unnatural,
Misplaced.

I've no idea why 
I sweat and sacrifice so many hours
Giving them life.
Perhaps they keep my hands from being empty
Or allow me foolishly to trust
I've meaning, purpose.
Most people never notice.

- 5/8/26

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