the last few bits of time slip off
into the restless, fleeing crowd,
and leave the watcher there
amid the wash
the eddies of superfluence
and all that excess has allowed
disguised beneath pretense
within panache
but artificial joy is real —
although it be constructed, it
is nonetheless a power, and
a way —
the chaos of conflicting wants,
and wondering – if just a bit –
if we should, maybe, do
the things we say
To share is human:
