True, but if you could stand and read,

the boards of arrivals in my head

and hear the hum of flying thoughts - 

so loud (their turbines) that it hurts -

if you sat in thought traffic control

then you would see my private hell.

If you had the stamp at the passports desk

you’d stamp yourself through no less

than twenty-four times every day

guaranteed, and there you would be

inside my head – an outlawed  thought,

granted asylum.  But, in my heart,

if you walked through to the lobby,

you’d see, amid the jostling mob,

a man holding a card with your name

with arms out, open in welcome.