Industry tripped by a collection of artifacts,
letters, papers, bytes, forms,
poetry by colleagues -
one former, one current -
awash in some kind of nostalgia
and marvel at this,
this occupation,
this vocation,
this craft,
I seem to have found myself
in with little training
and even less warning.
This long parade of lasts
to borrow a line
comes and I'm still
sweeping up the scraps
of confetti and ribbons,
still picking fragments
of ticker tape from the carpets,
after the last one.
The marching cadence, it grows louder.
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