Time is a luxury we’ve all longed for,
our most precious gift
of assurance that we mean sometime,
have something to do to prove ourselves
worthy.
And now, with so much fever to worry about,
we blush to get ready for the camera
at our home office—
polish, powder, paint
applied with a feather touch,
with care to flirt with what was,
in order to get through another day.
We ache for the touch of reality
that gives us something to wake up for,
something face to face
that helps us know
we are alive.
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