Not comedy or prose.

That thirst
for when you view it first
drinking details like they're calling time
is gone
and though you chase it on
it's quick to lose and oh-so-hard to find.

Too late;
streets sigh beneath the weight
of events you have ten times lived through.
Though past
under foot they crack like glass
and leave bitumen stuck to your shoes.

These ghosts,
these pale, unwanted hosts
Are distractions and they leave you blind
to now
they cloud your vision. How
hard to lose but oh-so-quick to find.