On the mend
The case of the missing lodger
and his disassembled pens—
how he’d fleetfooted, everrunning feelings
he never could seem to pin.
One would have never guessed How
one’d grow accustomed to hell, Nay,
would seem to seek it out; Sidelong.
some part of you, sure, but wholly Itself.
We find it’s a little more manageable:
we’re not so lost surfing channels,
so neither red-eyed nor rubbed raw
by our own hands, but for we
dulled every point we had.
It’s the mornings when you realize what you’ve done:
what contrivances you’ll now employ to get on,
how you have your half-truths, white-lies, alibis
to maybe make it back to an end, any end, back to bed alive.
Exertion is low on account of the smoke;
the cat cannot snack, he just sits and counts kibble.
How cheap’s the talk we sincerely deliver;
how meek’s the squawks, silences, whimpers?
Movements are limited, speaking’s discouraged,
all promises made should be weighed
‘gainst the chance you can’t keep them;
if or if ever that’s ever the case.
The only way back, back to your druthers,
back to the timeline you still felt hungry,
where you were wont on cold nights to shiver,
with far less to consider and less high of stakes—
Keep behind or else far out in the world.
Remember to chew something: gum, dowels or cud.
Carry paper and pen else be misunderstood.
And before it's this Winter, gather your wood.