tickets are sought. some are bought. and there are times even these
moments thoughtfully forheld are missed.
there are seats empty waiting for prostration.
there are bodies prostate far before their time.
there are relationships shattered,
reservation plaques on linens gathering dust.
there are suites heavy with bouquets,
abandonment or too late indecision forking paths.
there are openings emptier,
canapés clustering, questions dead before they’re asked.
there are sunsets never climbed for,
a variant first to claim tripod in place;
there are mechanical snaps taken in their stead,
thought comes after, spray and pray.
a waste, a waste, such wasted fate—
but judgment is not reserved for the ticketed.
at least while you’re above ground,
there will always be the next love and more art.