Looking out of the window on floor 3 of 5,
Watching little ants in their little cars.
Watching little ants with little smiles,
And little laughs and little victories.
Please, when it comes, make mine peaceful.

Sitting in the back, in a cubicle unnamed,
Not thinking about my work almost complete,
And the reaper standing at the time clock.
The reaper standing with my final paycheck.
Please, before it comes, let me call my mom.

Waiting, crossing "t's" and dotting "i's".
So much more that I could have done,
Have said, Have written, but it always
Comes down to the final page,
To the final sentence.
But, please, before it ends
Let me have the last word.

an open window,
a television turned low,
twice-read books,
hot dogs over-cooked,
stale breeze blowing in,
lights turned dim,
mail thrice-read,
an unmade bed,
a roommate with no key,
another lost in poetry

with every hour of sleep I lose
there was the memory to choose
and thought you’re awake inside those walls
since you regained consciousness that fall
to think she’s awake in the room
speechless and gone to soon
a tear to shed
in the air bed
for her children, who live with fear
of losing ourselves, like we did that year

The night you would come home in pain
moaning for tylenol and scolding the rain
and all those years seem to fade
I’d give tomorrow for that decent trade
and the current that pulls us away
my only hope is to hear you say
that you’re sorry you couldn’t stay
but what we had was yesterday

Would anything change
if I left where you all stood
would you be doing less opiates
and making somewhat constructive conversation?

Would you go unpunished for my excuses
or anticipate someone yelling while you drove?
I can’t see why someone would miss
a savage like me

Bickering, or
*******, or
slutting, or
strangling

You’ll all rest in peace
(not death, you barbarians)
when I’m not having spasms
next to your sink

Could anyone contort your face
like I can when I tell you how
filthy or gorgeous you look?
(no.)

Is anyone going to replace this void
that I’ll create in this cell
the walls stained with old *****
the rug covered in excess hair

In my defense
I’m truly insane
it should be no wonder
that I live in such a cave

When I leave
you’ll be much more relieved
I do wonder, however
how quickly you’ll age

Or if I’m the one to age
whistling through deserts and forests
and tripping on sidewalks
or drowning in corporate fountains

I cry hopelessly that I’m not
a catalyst
because I don’t want to stay here
when everyone is through

The rain will wash out
your bloodstains on my clothes
I can’t stumble through a laundromat
without feeling like a derelict

Maybe I’ll take up smoking
and deal crank to minors
and abuse my dogs
and **** my wife (or husband)

Or I’ll become a banker
and pocket your money
to burn when I’m cold
or bury under expensive food

It’ll take ten more warehouses
and a thousand more people
to chain me to this
map of my adolescence

Leaving here I’ll lose my mind
between the branches and streams
and the abundance of towering behemoths
that grew only lifetimes ago

If you follow me
I swear I’ll
drop you
into a
hole

No amount of love
is going to get you
out of there
so start digging
you might find some
bodies down there
make sure they’re dead

I’ve never made love to thunder
because my ears would be ringing
and I once had an eating disorder
that required purging and binging

Stop throwing your
sympathy everywhere
I’m not growing any younger
I wish all of you would realize
that
no one gives a **** about
your shoes or your dreams

don’t blame me if you can’t crawl out the cave