What’s the purpose of it all
It’s only raining dust and grit.
The sky is weeping spatter
And the only sidewalk is
On the far side of the street.

They shined up Highway 95
But out front here is nothing
But deep breaches in the tarmac
And anything that doesn’t hurt
Me manages to itch.

All the good stuff is locked up
In upstairs rooms down endless halls
Where something has been splashed
Across the carpeting
And the door is always padlocked.

The book inside is second handed
And it’s marked up in random places
That don’t align with what
The index says should be there
And the Ex Libris page is missing.

The day is pecking at its shell
Of hopelessness and need
In hopes of gaining freedom.
The prayer wheel is no longer spinning
And the crimson candle has gone out.

There are reasons for it all
It’s written up in Sanskrit ink
And plastered on the backyard wall
That keeps it all inside or out
And I’m stuck in the middle.
ljm