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we used to play a game, you and i:
we'd take the passing faces of pedestrians,
and bicyclists, businessmen and bikers,
hell, even that one elderly lady with fewer teeth
than stripes earned in strife, who stopped
only to inquire after where to buy a pack of smokes,
up the street, you told her, up past city hall, at bonanza,
and then a boy struck me silent
with the light off the studs on his jacket
we'd take their faces and give them
the most fantastic back-stories, ones we wished
someday we could tell our grandchildren,
or children, or even settle for a stranger on the street
to bear as some sort of unofficial witness to our lives
we've finally found definition, the illusion anyways,
we have evolved; we still like pokemon,
but we dress nicely now
needless to say,
we don't play that game anymore.
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