A date. Another date.

The in-between
— a belly full of snow
and miles of steel.

It’s a potato of a portrait,
unsuitable for framing,
from some unread directory,
security pass perhaps, a string of pointless numbers all its own.
Our comic bid for safety, for control.

Fulfilling all that’s left of obligation.
Duty’s discharge now just standing in a line or
sitting for a picture of an autumn afternoon,
signing here and signing there
while chestless men and haridans
pronounce their empty sentences
into the emptier air.

Sadness? Resignation?
Scan it all you can
for a word from before or beyond
but all you’ll hear is

Hurry up and take the picture I have
something else to do
hurry up