You know that plants can hear us?
They can tell you’ve arrived in the room,
each petal knows as you step inside, as the air
lets in your breath. But none of the people here

see you, and isn’t it nice to at last be invisible?
To slip in the back, a stranger, only here for a brief spell—
unwatched and entirely yourself—so now your hereness
is absolute, sort of like that blinding THIS moment
at the part of the poem where you’ve no past

or future, just this crowd around you,
shuffling their jackets that don’t quite fit, illuminating
their faces with bright phone light
for one, two seconds, then dark again.
Everyone’s here, stranger.

Even the plants are listening.
No curtain ahead, no show,
just us packed into the theatre, shifting,
a whisper, a wonder, a gasp,
as we wait for the war not to happen.