Anonymous protesters wearing their masks on their arms aren't so anonymous as they ask if you care about animals in cages
People flood the street
Some sleeping on it's corners, hidden by closed shop overhangs
Others kissing, holding hands as if everyone else is invisible
I stumbled into a book reading
Was the youngest there
An outcast
Bought a book of 1970's gay poetry
A little more phallic than I expected
But what was I expecting?
Met a man on the train
He said the book caught his eye
Was it the bare chested man on the cover?
He was a retired English professor reading a book on termites, going home to floss his cat's teeth
Wondering why I had the book
As if it was an uncommon thing for me to hold
It was but, not to me
The book was one of many I was collecting
Who's stories didn't erase people like me
Who acknowledged my existence and that of those before me
Who helped me time travel to moments of euphoria and freedom
An escape from reality
I got the book because I'm a writer I said
It's research
And it is, not just for my writing but for my life


This poem is about: 
My community


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