Social progress is in a pickle, a big abnormal mess, a product of our time. It wins all the half-eaten take-out on the table. 40% of obdurate, hardly-ever voters like you and me. And how long can you live folding up conversation, shadows unused, perpetually minimalist verging on pickled filth and circumstance? Who isn’t in one?

The you I 
tableau sponged, spackled remotely, 
burst. Mangrove gripped in saliva. Anything 
pure, immersed. Swimming 
synchronized. The bellicose slink back. 
I left y ou out.