He loiters around the queuing line and around the exit,
But never rides with them.
And once they leave the magic is gone.
Craving points, like a signpost, back to him.
Obsession and he are close.
They scheme together,
or rather; obsession schemes and he is used.
He means well, but the well is deep and dry.
I meet with him often, I see him as he is,
leaning on the fence checking his emails on his smartphone.
I stand by him handing out balloons.
