Hinged

Chaos reigns at the drinking fountain.
Consensual, of course, but
who’s keeping score?
The more interesting among us
remain hinged to the moment.
See what silence and industry get you.
Overloaded wires crisscross against
the vastness of a brooding wet sky.
The big lie seems sufficiently diminished by now;
it can be kept in a pocket
or perhaps crushed in a palm
until its pulpy juices seep through the fingers.
Pull my stink, why don’t you?
This is how we wanted it to end, remember.

-r. miller