by on May 26, 2023 :: 0 comments

When a confabulation perches on an awkward crossway
with boyhood chums or a lover whose lane is no longer
a compulsion, I state with all the might I can measure up:
everyone has someone or the other on their map.

Post hoc, I seek eye contact. Most are rapt with the routine:
playing with the ice over their thirst quenchers or reading
messages on their mobiles. A few gaze vacantly at me.
Certain utterances: for the self.

editors note:

Allowing this poem to use your current location. – mh clay

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