I disrobe myself -- paste it out there for all to see. And you see; you take it all in like famished children. A few of you smile, or nod; you acknowledge me.
The others stand and stare behind sheets of one-way glass. I know you're there. My sensors are up; you leave your evidence -- food wrappers and footprints.
My food! My soil! But I can't tell who, or why. I only know when, and I know how many. Sometimes the footprints are few. And they match the soles of the shoes of those I love. Other times, the footprints are that of an army -- uniform, cold, silent. I disrobed before an army.
And now I disrobe again...
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But it's an army that's marching past. They've seen so many bathsheba's that most of them barely notice anymore. They don't mark the spot, and they'll never be back. They don't understand.
I'm thankful I have a well worn path from my house to yours.
"But it's an army that's marching past..."
You think? Sometimes I don't know, and the silent army drives me batty.
Why does it bother you so?
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