Being Busy

 two men facing away from each other staring at their laptops

How’s it going?

Alright. Just busy.

Just busy?

Just busy.

Everyone’s busy
doing something these days
Thing is, 
I’m not sure what
we’re all doing

Are we busy creating art?
Not quite.
The world would have more beauty
If that were the case

Are we busy doing work?
We are.
But what work, exactly?
Is it work that innervates our body?
Or is it work
That props us up
like lifeless mannequins,
storefront puppets on display
If you’re in a rush
you can walk by
and they seem real
but they’re not

We’re too busy to notice
And that’s what they count on
those who sell their wares
to we the masses
who can’t pinpoint
what the emptiness
feels like
So we fill the space
with things
that make us busier
just in different ways

And soon, 
the buzzing sound
catches up with us
and it’s not
the one
coming from our smartphones
It’s the existential dread
with the deafening clang
of lost meaning

Did you hear what I said?

Were you listening?

What’s that?

You’re busy?

Never mind.