Lack

Of shock. Of dread.
Of this shock, redressed.
A man in the flesh,
engaged, incensed.
Stock-still. Undressed.

What a fucking mess.

Our fucking gone-too-farness.
The foregone conclusion
is boredom, I guess.

Like sailors pressed into duty on a ship,
we measure the length of our endless
trip in knots. Raise wet canvases of nots
and wait for wind to strip the deck.
I tell knock-knock jokes. You either
laugh, or you don't.

My easy consonance.
Your queasy countenance.
A stray tucked back in place.

Our come-uppance.

I didn't see the glass.
I didn't notice your eyes.
I've not gone crazy yet
(though, it's implied).

But the floor’s declared a war.
and I propose a truce.
Truth is:
There isn't any more to lose.