Boxes seem to dent the floor their placement,
a weight that sucks the future in.
So long I’ve waited to wait for the wait,
which will begin any minute now.
These things I’ve dragged across hell’s creation:
detritus abandoned. Here’s a woman’s hand
that forgot me and a face I’ve forgotten—
scowling, I’m sure.
It’s so tiring, living. I will need rugs.
What kind of people display fake fruit for guests?
Welcome, and remember the hunger that
can never be filled.
A face can do the same work without the worry
of dust.
Here’s a list of three things I’ll fail to do:
enjoy life,
overthrow the government,
record an album of songs about monsters.
If I work very hard and forgo all enjoyment,
someday, I’ll still be broke and miserable
but in a different pair of shoes.
When there’s no change to be had, people
pretend it’s the janitor’s fault they’ve
left trash everywhere.
Sometimes, if you throw yourself under the bus,
the bus drags you home. This is as close
to a new life as many of us can afford.
Whose turn is it to stack the dishes in the sink?
I’m supposed to tell you to be grateful for having a sink.
