Despatch

End so it ends. Another exchange
of letters of pixels through ether. Another cut
of soul, shamelessly laid bare. Another heart
in throat leap, trusting that YOU KNOW. WHAT? Eh,
I dunno, whatever's appropriate to know, reasonably
accurate to the facts, within the scope
of the overlap between the mutual understandings
we each mean to establish, and to otherwise
question the questionable,

Even if one's standing to ask is idling
curiously by the curb while you or they
loiter indecisively nearby, unsure of
whether to tug down the hem of somebody's skirt. You
could get picked up for that
in this town, and when they drop the charges
for lack of any sense it's not going to
break anybody's heart, or make the day's news
any smarter. By the time it hits the front page,
it'll be mustard from a street vendor's oversauced
dog.