cross section

some wear life like a sleeve, or a slice of fashion 

with an eye for the elegant and a nod to artifice.

some, 

not all svelte, 

billow and flow

like cabbage roses on a summer trellis just waiting for a passer by to 

stop

admire

caress and qvell, and murmur approval and drop some petals 

just a few

right there at your feet.

you pause 

stunned

where am I going with this 

to some moral 

some story 

a sermon or parable

perhaps just a moment, a

homily or fable 

or tale of karma

or fickle swipe of fate 

some stainless random futile existential self annihilation 

just an observation

some fill out a suit

play the cards they are dealt 

try to remain humble

tell a story

unwrite

reverse engineer

retell it 

until it is a new garment

a jaunty foulard cravat or

a beaded belgian lace sleeve,

an audacious aubergine dyed ostrich plumed chapeau –

not for the weak of heart, mind you,

none of this is easily digested

others wait for traffic to slow to a trickle and

leave no trace not a shrug nor a whisper,

a gray ash,the faint smell of smoke and whiskey 

notwithstanding-

the need to be alone and away from the clamor and claim.

the shrieking squealing sound of air brakes announce an end to the journey

and endings are so hard to endure. 

and what is an echo but a audio scent

you leave 

your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears

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