A Preference for the Madness

when I see a man alone
in a shopping center parking lot
flailing his arms like a dry land drowning victim
I expect him to be insane – or engrossed in a manic episode
but all too often, he’s simply wearing a tiny telephone earpiece
quoting disappointing sales figures or bickering with his girlfriend
and the closer I walk – and as the truth sinks in more deeply
the more certain I become that I’ve somehow been cheated
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