Something to Send Home

A poem I'm working on I'd like to put out there is timidly called, Can't Get Out:


Eyes awaken to sunlight over coffee
  and go down,
    just as heavy as dawn,
  after the sun has warmed the blankets.
Sky's clear, but there's mostly blue shadows.
It may be windy out -
cardboard seals four broken windows after gails snapped
   the panes shut, which broke the glass
   that protected the flat where I live.

Little light, lots of noise.
The trees show the bliss of a cool breeze
  as they hog all the sunshine.

The boistrous, the reserved, the brave,
   congregate at the streets
   and share what they know,
   even if they dont know much.
Everyone has so much to tell.
     I cry,
"Why hide a pretty face?" and
  "What a strange hat,"
a buttery bowl of malt-o-meal warming my lap.