One After the Other After the Other

Volumes,
lined up one after another,
documenting
and recording,
scribbles
and scraps. 

Scribs
and scrapples,
all laid out,
one after other,
in important sequence,
but in the very least,
it lacks a needed sense of
decency.

It’s just all in,
one after the other,
after the other,
Will all it even matter?

It’s just some,
bobs and bits.
That attempts to make,
the smallest portion,
of cohesive sense.

But it mostly,
edges towards this sense of
cohesion
and then runs,
once the perpetrator arrives.

Anxious to make the deal,
anxious in the handshake,
anxious once the the words,
are in the hands of the page,
without the knowing,
of how it will all even communicate.