Looking At You

He pushed the door, and I stumbled in-
there you were huddled in an exhausted seat
your bones rubbery, your eyes watery.

Electric thoughts that crackle around you
seemed like soggy rags sans the stink-
your darting eyes had slowed down
like a sodden evening.

Spirits might have been talking in tongues
whenever you opened your mouth slightly
-saw you stop and blink your eyes
before struggling with the act,
the horrendous act of turning thoughts to words.

The merry-making and scene enacting went on
heedless, and when the others had slowed
you sped on like a wheeless skid downhill,

perhaps I glimpsed three of you-
how many more remain to be seen?

(c) Max Babi, June 2005.

Ahem, posting this here for expert comments.