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Poem

The detritus of consumer culture
Is coming down the chimney Christmas eve.
It’s a milk and cookies taming of the shrew.
It’s what we do.

I have a firm grasp on the mundanely ineffable, 
But I’m not making any new memories.
All my memories are only passing through.
It’s what they do.

I’ve no time for shamanistic media whores 
Who paper the landscape with billboard opinions.
They wouldn’t pass scholastic peer review.
They never do.

In order to maintain the appearance of sobriety
I keep a balanced rhythm of ritual and routine.
My survival skills are tested, tried and true.
It’s what I do.
 
I stay below the radar and far above the fray,
Attending to whatever task is presently at hand.
If I say I will, I always follow through.
That’s what I do.

But whatsoever has any of this to do with you?

My pupils dilated when we made eye contact.
I didn’t want to stare, but I couldn’t look away.
You dared me not to change my point of view.
That’s what you do.

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