The universal isn’t universal, like
this chicken Caesar’s salad.

Or these fingerprints on the beer glass.
Or this heat wave though Old Montreal.
Or this waiter’s hair parted by dyed days.

Vesuvius is a stern teacher;
time will never be buried with us.

Our final poses are all we’ll ever own.

To get back to the hotel, I have choices:
to travel on the Earth owned by seasons
or to go via the underground
shopping city full of dead mannequins.