The sit down is a stew.
It’s a slow stew on the stool.
What’s with this song?

This song. It’s been
been played too much,
too much to the point
to the point it’s not just lost
it’s not just lost, it’s oblivious to
oblivious to whatever appeal
to whatever appeal it had. Once.

Once. It appalls him.
Appalls. Is that too strong a word?
Permit me to say no.
Permission granted. No.
May he? He may. He might win
back its appeal with few subtle changes.
Might he? Let’s see. Let’s.

“Let bits flee, let bits flee
where there’ll be no answers.”
It’s funny – funny strange –
how he made the cliché more,
more absurdly clichéd.
And it’s funny... funny.
How? Funny how
after all this time
nothing’s changed but the faces
– theirs not his.
His was always the clown’s... odd.

Oddly, time didn’t stop, but it did make a loop.
Time looped in slot-machine cherry,
orange and lemon.
It whirred by
and it doesn’t stop, not even
when their faces blur.
They aren’t even faces now.

Now? What are they?
They’re blurs,
blurs nothing more
nothing more than blurs,
and what’s funny
what’s funny strange is so
so is he. A blur.

A blur and nothing more
nothing more than a blur until
until he picks up the hat.

He picks up the hat
the hat he didn’t wear here
he didn’t wear it here but he’ll take it
he’ll take it with him
he’ll take the hat with him when he goes
when he goes now.
Now. He’s gone.