Enough remain who’ll lucidly recall
a time before the time I witness now
when members of their species sat
and spoke, and listened, and engaged.
As I navigate the floor, unmazing
left and right, my sole intent’s
to reach those grooved metallic stairs
that loop and loop until they don’t.
A passage you’d complete ten thousand
times, at least, in different permutations.
But still you see. See first. Grin perhaps,
then maybe count. They’re sat. You’re up.
You see the scene they don’t. Tables
sometimes full, sometimes threes or pairs,
all holding versions of a basic type.
Together, but alone. Addressing,
sliding, pressing, peering or enlarging,
in desperate need to validate themselves.
Survivors of the days of empty hands
will tell us that they had no cause for that.