Show Me Your Papers

How are you keeping, ma’am, I’m Fine, while below the surface my Life’s a stack of newspapers, randomly Blanketing the furniture, they block the Ingress of outsiders, the egress of Emotion, they help me keep track Of what’s important, who’s died, who’s Still alive, I search the obituaries For who I know not, to Know oneself, is this still the Ideal, or naivety? what’s in plain Sight is forgotten, and only serves To collect dust, I’m slowly dying Emphysema sets in, beneath the patina Of memories, I still choose to Give weight, but if you remove All the excess, Under the last layer you will find The child Whose wide eyes endlessly search for approval Your identity is not the minutes Of the meeting, But the substance of moments Well met