by Richard P. Mayer
The wind blew open the door and Ozzie materialized.
He slid in sideways, a faded reflection un-detected.
A swarm of workaholics were struggling to decompress,
swathed in a stifling, fetid, florescent miasma.
Occupied in animated tête-à-tête they sling metaphors;
their fingers snatch chunky pieces of syntax in-flight.
Smoking vowels and snorting syllables by the line, they
carelessly aim their cold grey wolf eyes – probing.
Conversation flowed like the tide rolling in and out;
laughter replicating the crash of massive waves.
People were swallowed whole in the scrum;
reappearing moments later with a new identity.
Navigating the crowd without being seen was not difficult.
Ozzie says: everyone’s brain was recalibrated this night,
his presence similar to the static of a broken radio;
nearby but without form or function.
This particular occasion he chooses not to materialize,
believing that their fragile workaholic egos, if exposed,
will cause an existential crisis drifting into a contagion.
So, he remains on the same frequency and moves about,
wicking energy from the self-absorbed participants;
always being careful to avoid the saturation point

