Place of Sense

When you live somewhere for a long time
you become familiar with the smells.
The smoke from the factories.
The ammonia from the fertilizer plant.
The slaughter house smells of blood and bone.
The garlic frying in woks.
And the smells become familiar with your nose.

You get use to the sounds.
The honking of horns and the squealing of tires.
The siren of cops and the silence of robbers.
The helicoptors overhead.
The crying and the laughing.
The music from the cars.
And the sounds are comfortable with your ears.

But most of all you recognize the others.
You walk by them sometimes.
Sometimes they walk by you.
You can tell who is awake.
You can sense the angry ones.
You notice the sadness of some.
Some of them never talk.
Some of them just drift.
You can see who is full of love.
You can see who is dripping with hate.
But all of them are alive.
And they can remember you.

I know that there are times,
when you see someone on the sidewalk.
They are just walking by.
You nod your head.
And they nod theirs.
But they are not like the others.
But they are like the others.
It is always hard to tell.
You never really can tell.
But they are there.
Right there on the sidewalk.

Let me make this a little clearer.
It has something to to do with
the sense of place.
The place of sense.
And the spirit in you.
And the spirits outside of you.
You get familiar with the place
and the place gets familiar with you.

And that is the thing
that I needed to say.