Ceremony, like death, is all around.

Ceremony is life’s material;

Omnipresent but always elusive.

For some it never happens. We spectate

And drool, and press our face against the glass.

 

Hop on a bus. Look out of the window.

Somebody is dressing up or dancing,

Saluting an old war memorial,

Or chasing a ball in their sweat-soaked whites;

French kissing, or cracking some Brazils.

Time to slam your fist. Recoiling from pain,

You curse the world it wasn’t you, again.