Your head,
A taxing mess,
An echo of 100 voices screaming frantically,
In a burning stadium,
It’ll dispatch you an invoice made of invincible paper,
Of sleep and appetite,
Of scruffily chewed nail tips.
Your dog will be okay,
It’s an inflammatory bump,
Your plant hasn’t died,
The green it shows now has not been accounted yet,
Even by the computers,
The curve is not so steep,
That poem,
Not so shoddy,
Stop swelling illusory bridges with concrete,
Your head is resting on a very thin sheet of ice,
Stop jostling,
Or you will drown