staying stationary with my window on this world
as travelers with their treasure troves
carry on casual conversations
with passing strangers perched on stools
in meeting places of fabricated intimacy
where one's life story is the only unattended baggage
left behind
with the self they are trying to shed
and the self they want you to believe them to be

every story becomes glossed with a sheen
of overstated oppulence
as the everyday becomes epic
and the mundane larger than life
as lies, like departure times slip easily
behind tired eyes and rumpled clothing

what is the distinction
between worldly
and world weary