This is missing.
It’s all bullshit and shells.
Empty chairs or pages or
the taste of warm Dr Pepper has outgrown us.
Glass alters the shadow,
it now shimmers on the table top,
the pre-distressed concrete floor,
with all the hints of a broken life.
But they said you were missing.
Hidden under a presidential beard:
guns and top hats,
swimming pools and cocktail dresses.
The simple hedge of mourning.
a glimpse of the blasé.