Only People.

In isolation

it is They.

They the scattered

puzzle's parts

that lay

obscuring one

another overturned

upside down, sideways

in glances

a mess

we'd say.

Catching a glass

reflection

the taste bitter

pleasant, ruddy.

I deserve that reprimand

burning my tongue.

The tableau idyllic,

full cups, steaming

no piece missing

the scene.

Only people.