i find transit in myself, between
home and not that is somehow familiar.
after hours of funereal soft sofa deaths
throwing wake after wake after wake,
i swear never to kill time, again.
i watch as patch-work bags of floral
navigate brambled voices
and children sleep rubbed from eyes.
while random chimes and alarms fire,
doughnut zombies amble towards chocolate bars,
and studious bun ducks into smoking rooms.
my self-service food court hums
micro-waves and fluorescent while
a trolley fills with smoked eels and gossip.
over silent apple pie,
sondering hairy knuckles, and birthmark face,
a red hat lady giggles.
i loll in the vellichor settled around
my day-dream of phronesis.