how does one pass by a spinning artist,
stepping with grace, as his friend sits
on a meager bench whittling away
through a woody universe of
silently moving words in particular
orbits?
how does one, albeit amid a theater of shoppers,
do this act of simple ignoring? or is it
a thorough contempt for art, even perhaps a premeditated
theatrical role feigning ignorance in order to convince
oneself there is a limit on time, and a purpose beyond here and now, to meet?