I have built my shrine to insecurity.
Laced it with peppermint and spice,

to give it added attraction. The smell
giving strength to the overall gasps

of pain that escape from fetid lips.
Spinning tyres go round and round,

never heading in any direction. I am
as tiny as a bug on the floor, unknown

to the feet walking across it. Steadily
determined to strive for satisfaction.

But nothing is really working right.
There seem to be no magical moments.

Question marks float like blowing leaves
across the metres of asphalted streets.

The rice is cooking in the rice-cooker.
The bowl and chopsticks at the ready.

I've littered the table with papers of
instructions that I'm required to read.

As I eat, I'll give them their justice
and learn the many pills I'm to have.

The ice is chopping on the balcony.
The cold is here now. A fabled

Canadian winter underway. I was
filled with doubt, and this somehow

mattered, despite the pencils sharpened
so easily in the struggle of the existing.

The rice is done and, perhaps so am I.
I wash my hands and think of nothing.