I’m left holding the door, 
the epitome walks through 
an invisible myself who acknowledges 
some vestige or prosthesis 
 
but generally materializes 
in a vacant air and heads for the elevator, 
rising levels of abstraction 
leave the head 
 
empty, eyes gritty with undisclosed 
amnesia once defended against 
by memorization, Polonius’s 
speech to his son performed 
 
in the old folks home 
or those lines in which mercy 
becomes redundant, 
you see, he pauses in the slow lane 
 
and addresses rapt thousands 
by the light change, 
and we do, the king is in his counting 
house measuring power, 
 
I’m still holding the door, still 
born in the grid, it’s getting expensive 
to live in a world of light, 
a replicant answers the call to Chaucer 
 
and the students wrap themselves 
around an eraser, 
these are thoughts that occur in stress, 
one for the street 
 
and one the street displaces 
count your blessings 
empty porter, 
vacant weather. 
 
 
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