Clouds, charcoal chalk lines wriggling across the sky.
The old paperbark basket sits in the corner by the fireplace
The radio its brass knobs and a dulled wooden sheen
Not stories of yesteryear or of adventure in your arm-chair
No, the stories were traded in the navel-gazing bull market on a virtual square
Popularized friendships all are we; and none are ever known to be.
The social paint of humanity peeling from weather and neglect
Dare we say-not this speckled Chameleon of progress.
