Tragic, in these times of culture, to be divided
by a shortfall that is already riven in two.
The abstemious think otherwise, keep to themselves
in hazy rituals whose ultimate purpose
gets blotted out by new trends in passionate landscapery.

Are we better for it? I ask you. Subway chiming,
ghost pilgrims flowing through revolving doors.
All change reassures the nattering classes.
They can have what they want as long as nobody
much takes an interest in it. The

dim flood restores us to our senses. What time is it?
Or was it? Would you say those figures are accurate?
Did a dream publish you as you turned in sleep
to that other accessory, who waited so long
that the life drained out of his circumstance?

Imagine that you can have this time any way it comes
easily, that a doctor wrote you a prescription
for savage joy and they say they can fill it
if you’ll wait a moment. What springs to mind?
Do you turn and walk out of the drugstore, intent

on the bus that stops at the corner of 23rd Street
and after an eternity pulls up with a hiss
just as the red light is changing to green?
You are out of breath and silly from running.
Someone standing near the door is doing a survey

of transit users. There’s time to compose a strict
etiquette unfolding from the fan club to the sea. Hark!
It’s unattainable. All the way home we argued about whether
refunds would be made in cash or against future purchases.
It’s the only way, you said. We’ll end up wanting these anyway.