Frame your Sunday brunch as a childhood sweetbit,
manufacture after the capture with more redflags;
pour relations after kith and kin with feigned hit.

The brunch is done and so is our agreement.
The contract is as napkin math, undone and smeared
***** lipstick and cigaretted.

Forget about it, the millennium came and went and gone.
All we have now is a time eerily similar to another
without the escape of waking up and wiping face with yawn.

Cumbersome troubles on our sleeves tattoo'd for self-expression.
But what did you need so badly to tell us about yourself, what lesson
shall we learn through the sifting of eyefucks in Starbucks.
Through the popular apathy of shrugged shoulders when mentioned Sisyphusian boulder.
"**** happens."
What else could?
And in your gleaning of brilliant observation on the banality of complaints.
What did you muster as axiom within your world-view of constraints?
Did your unfinished novel and penchant for humanities,
remove you further from nature than consciousness,
remove you further from what makes us you and me?
The condition we live in, despite temporal and generational
bridges,
hinges on the livings of lives.
The thrives and thrivings of not,
cannot be captured nor caught
within the shallow swaip of a Sunday portrait turned to the side for landscape.