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 act out through open discourse... W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please,  
 
have your way. Have your composite gods who do it for the masses.  
 
(This soon after a last breath, is it safe to call on you O Yeats?) (Maybe not.)  

Some of us are too disgraced to save
 
the day. 
 
Though not all of us will defriend you now or any time. Now there is only commutation of friendship.  
 
It’s natural, a picnic in the outback.   
 
The wilds... on all fours, all floors. Hours.