Game with No Shot Clock

Life's no longer a contact sport,
distance constituent of
permanent remove.
Phones have deleted
social interaction
like a mismanaged app.
Instead we endorse
impossible agreements,
whine about all the ways
we cannot fathom signs.
A new generation
tied fast to fears,
we revel in misperception
slowing comprehension.
No worries, we say,
when speaking lies
that come to define us.
A team of confused individuals
won't pass the ball away,
yet we find ourselves down court,
driving hard against logic,
hoping desperate layups
still find a home.
We awake in cold sweat
standing at the foul line,
throwing up bricks
like triggered emotions,
afraid to admit
practice is needed
to change these odds,
to move ahead and beyond
this encroaching paralysis
of strange insensate loss.