A Stupid Thing and MacBeth

Butts of Long Since Passed

Sitting here, on my butt, at the top of rows and rows
of empty tables and empty seats
bereft of butts long since passed.

In a great cavity of butt, one might say.

And in this void, I am compelled to wonder, where all butts have gone?

Simply, they have gone off--and on and on and on.

They have squished and sagged and haunted other halls.
But, the suggestion here lingers.

You butts are too transient. But, your traces too strong.
Leave me! You booty specters.

The present fear of butts' absence is less than horrible imaginings.
Nothing is butt, but what is not.
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This is some stuff I thought about in an empty cafeteria and then I went to a Shakespeare class and then I biked home. This is what I carried back.