Busybody

The empty stretch of a half-purposed day
Can still be filled with empty sugar buzz;
Its meaning may be tattered, torn away,
And yet it still retains the part that was,
When times were better, ether to that part,
The business that carried meaning on.
Though purpose may be ripped out of its heart,
That does not mean the errands, too, are gone;
They still may scuttle emptily about,
Filling up the hours as they go,
Vainly surging in and flowing out,
In some deliberately desperate show.
But I, at least, can anchor meaning there
Upon our love, and so avoid despair.