alone, at first resentful
as the scotch escapes, but
effortlessly ensnared by a glass,
while distant once (possibly magnetic) imprints echo
their clapping at sounds long gone
But that Still resonate not from quality, no
but in emptiness and vulnerability

a night of television cloaked in life’s dreams
protest futile
and pointless                                        it’d be just as empty otherwise

later a familiar tugging
the corner of a darkroom easel                         (long gone)
the long-absent knock of now-pregnant companions
letters from forgotten (long neglected, perhaps) text beckon
Cummings whines and Toad wails
I am Still, a hack.                                             (but still better than you)