Wraiths of your wipeout strut on my screen.
I have accepted them like most of me. When
strangers, some with unheard of names wish
me on SocMed as a bill flaunts my red-letter
day: does it sear or soften me?
The gent from the service provider axes another
consultation: my passbook isn’t updated. Pegging
it on an unusual scale is the pickle. I’m earmarking
it as one more leaf in my compendium: though the
heartbeat throbs quicker.
