Don’t we have an elevator to take (to greet you)? 
 
Gavel to gavel hours turning the page. Hours. 
What we do converts personality to stunt-craft.  
What we have to act out is open discourse W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please,  
 
have your way, fleets of stars, your options. Have your composite gods who do it for the masses.  
 
(This soon after your last breath, is it safe to pun O Yeats?) (Maybe not.  
I’ll frighten no one to be temperate.) Some of us are too disgraced to save  
the day.  Tho not all of us will friend you now or any time.   
 
Now there is no instance of friendship at different times.
It’s natural, a picnic in the wilderness.   
 
The wilds... on all fours, all floors.