All of us
in various stages of dying and and being born
The mom yet to be,
a four month swell behind her shirt
Dad of 2, trailing behind
tiredness and joy mixed in his eyes.
Girls wrapped in on one another
knots of noise. Giggles and insecurity

Men put together
like showrooms from Ikea
Efficacious, nothing warm like home.
Wives, squint nosed
Clack snap of boots hard against
cultured marble
faces of fluorescent light

Each one placed in retail
somnolence
drug forward in a steady gait
toward that something
We each to his own way
in this place of quick promise
I look to see with only
ambiguity looking back

The old,
moss sitting on hard booth seats
as if being near life
will lead them back to life again
Hats and twill
scarves and purple. Semblance
of then and not again

Then me
a smooth stone washed over
by this flow of person-hood
Unseen but shaped by every current
bearing witness
cocooned in the falsehood of
objectivity.