They’re doing what they do.
Fretting about the prices of things.
Their worth and the cost of things coming and going, as if they had a hand in either.
Games of kill the other and craft deceit on a third.
Showing off a pyro-techno display in faraway lands.
Something about gas and oil.
Terrorizing the locals with story after story – only a true end of days yarn could spook this crowd now.
All have been lied to much too often.
The skin is now too thick for garden variety ghastliness.
They might not flinch if their heart dropped into the street and burst.
If a million distant moons pounded their turf into a dusty pulp, they’d wonder if it were worth Instagramming – if the light was good enough.
The genius is that they still prowl the streets, looking to procreate, as if a next generation of skittish ninnies could top their histrionics.
Could a new cast of crazies outperform them?
Hard to tell, but there are some delightful fools in training.
And the dog stares down the front door, knowing the human will come round and reach for the leash, grab the key, pocket a bag, and open the magic portal once more.
A world of walks waiting.
Circles on circles.
Delight by the fire.