How do you describe

a day passing like a stranger

not turning at the sound

of falling scaffolding

used to city cacophany

indifferent to the silent need

of abandoned buildings

they never speak out

their grief

instead, their faces

long and elongated like

a farmer who tolls and is unnourished

by his labor

grows lines of muted grief on his cheeks

cross-hatching the old wrinkles of smiles

so long ago now it isn’t bear witnessing

his family lie in their solace

beneath spilt earth

waiting his turn

and he digs at stubborn soil

filled with limestone and angry rock

each time his spade hits

he flinches a little as the echo

of every effort he made

reverberates across quiet valley

like a drunk woman mocking him

only then

in those moments

when we stand holding our hands out

and nobody takes them

do we see the pack of cards

and their fortune

splayed on green cloth

and wonder at the choices we made

and those we did not