The Presentation

We sleep on our teeth, atop
hand-crafted apparatus
writhing in a tattered satin jacket
burbling fragmented sweet nothings in staccato clatter

Our bones are deep, inside
weather-worn matter
aching of physiological agency

We sit, while
a man gives an oral presentation
in a dimly lit auditorium

We raise our hands, politely
He calls on us, one by one
We are polite
It is all very orderly

He answers our questions, one by one
He is polite
It is all very orderly

I look up at my own raised hand
My satellite, my beacon
My wrinkled mess of flesh and hair and skin
My arthritic limb and bones within
My internationally-recognized cry for attention

The man calls on me
I do not interrogate
He does not respond

My bones are deep
It is all very orderly
The way I closed the door as I exited the auditorium
The echo of my footsteps in the hallway

The downward gaze of passers-by
illuminated by device, oblivious of self
aching of physiological agency

It is all very deep
Our teeth are orderly
We bone in our sleep