The time came for the move.
And I moved.
The upgrade was made from the small studio
To the spacious one-bedroom as apartments go.

I now have before me the worst part of the move in the unpack,
And I discover at the same time what may be the best
Amenity of this new place.

There’s a grand window looking out to the south
Over the rows of parked tenant's cars and beyond.
Not far beyond, mind you, but enough to make one addicted.

Addicted to the window.
I’m addicted to my window and all its goings-on.
My boxes, well, they just simply wait
And look on.

The deliberate suitor raps upon
Another parlor door.

The rocky trail has bested him
As his heel is bruised and sore.

But he feels the pain is worth it
He’s so full of love yet to outpour…

But he’s nothing specific--
She seeks the professional sort,
He’s a man miscellaneous--
He has nothing to offer...

It’s supposed that his future lay in his brains.
He’s so **** restless though,
He can only hop the trains.
He’s a miscellaneous!

The idea of his conforming to a niche
Would be a concept he could never
Comprehend...

He can’t see himself,
Though into 10,000 mirrors
He’s had to of gazed--

The jack of all trades and master of none.
This is the man miscellaneous--
Let me show you the fellow who has
Slipped through all the cracks...

The women can’t take him.
The bosses reprimand him.
The preachers like to brand him.
And society likes to use his head
For its excrement.

Like Atlas, he bears the weight.
The weight of his sin; the weight of his hate.
The whole world’s **** of useless information,
Fed to him by wires and pages--

He’s become a man miscellaneous--
Nothing specific,
Just a wavy form upon the horizon.