Especially now, with the cat out of the bag
the holiday season ready to pounce
and your latest tête-à-tête simmering in the atelier.
Listening to covers while journaling
will buy you the anonymity
you've convinced yourself you need
and enable you to resume your place in line.
The Persian rug in the room is gone
as are the white beaches
with the beached iMacs.
You've been fortunate enough
to live the life of make-believe,
and get away with it, for the most part.
I'm surprised you were never called
to the front office, that strange transfer station
populated with mannequins
of questionable character.
If only you had described the beauty
of the algorithm you wrote that tied it all together,
you could have redeemed the coupons
downloaded in anticipation.
That would have been quite a coup.
Too late now. Too late for most things.
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| The Turin Horse (2011) |