To Live and Die by an ROI
I hear and not see,
as I long and
cheer for you, and try,
stunned, to compute,
for you,
this bewildered string of things,
numbers and shapes.
I watch them pass me by,
real, but guised and draped,
in a blurred and patched shy.
They stare at me, hollow,
I think,
but silent remains the broken flute,
when binned blunt,
and too thin.
What is this thing, I ask less of you,
is it our loss, win,
or their stirred, surreal bluff?
