Chiming in so irresponsibly,
and at a moment, no less,
that doesn’t call for chimes –

but you wouldn’t want me
to get all subversive, now.
The hand that feeds will be
bitten into as was prophesied
long ago on some undercooked
morning like this. We have our
schemes, schematics, semantics,
whatever fits. Take five on the wing,

since we insist on being
a drag about it. All the while,
these melancholic strains
keep amassing in the inner ear,
readying their woeful tales of
how deeply we’ve disappointed our friends,
how profoundly we’ve failed our teachers.
How in moments of petty crisis,
we defiantly shrink from the occasion.

Are these really the kinds of expectations
one simply “lives” up to?

Someday, I’ll compartmentalize this
(with feeling!), but until then,
the story goes reeling out of itself
at ever worrying speeds.

Such a well-curated non-event.
And, like me, a mere fact
among the unheard others.