Fit

What label does this period deserve
as the angle of incitement
scrawls light on a face.

Telling: it’s a gift of lucidity,
a check cashed the last time.

But who’s the anachronism now;
whiling away,
whittling knife.

A suburban basement
ping pong table
when there was
no together.

Years on, what’s new?
The shadows scratched histories.

Which space
to park a life in transmission.