Oh Pythagorean

There's a commotion;
it's our Tuesday's lost time cluttern' air:
The bustle of trash men accepting things people heedlessly give away,
the humming of engines that gulp on anxious expectation,
dogs whining - a hankering for all the world's attention,
peoples voices summering as they become
steeped in this crowded space we share; it's
the clatter of the blinds, and it's confusion's running fun.
Because as we lay here, we're becoming a point
that glistens 45 degrees from where it could have been,
a theorem proving me wrong for assuming
that part of me died over a year ago.