I know it’s just pretend,
a world contrived for stage,
but I want to see some people,
some over-easy eggs.
Those stools were made for twirling,
the mustard made to squirt,
the door was made for swinging,
but they’re eerily inert.
The world’s a stage, the poet said,
for fools to strut and fret;
that may be so but still we miss
the people for the set.
And so, dear reader, we bungle on without people on our sets.
I hope you endure.
With thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
and, of course, to The Bard.
When morning sparkles