A stage hand steps out of the wings of a 747
his pock marks, circa fifteenth century, map the location
of a hidden cache of manuscripts.
A yellow blurb raises a ruckus on the seven PM newsbreak.
The anchor, your neighbor's kid who dropped out of med school
when graying cadavers began texting him,
rebounded to bagboy before landing on his head.
Consider Leonardo. His celibate hands separating the quiet tissue
encrypting his legacy with mirror-writing
remaindered to coffee tables at the close of business.
Tell me if anything ever was done. Like him we await
the final bed to review the patterns of fence posts
driven randomly into the earth
the quick starts on cold mornings
the madness of the emissaries in each of us
brandishing semaphores against the gathering storm
leaving us to conjure the hustle-bustle of late arrivals
searching for coins to deposit into the solitary parking meter.
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