I dream a dream of skill, I gather pictures of best practice (methods best enacted off the couch.) I house, crisp corners, soaring beams and posts where gawkers marvel, ‘cos the high is feeling good. I see the woods and watch the owners. (What good grip they have! enough to claim what they could never care for- let the lessers sing their lives!) I drive a drive not fast enough for fastness-makers, flaunting logos, polished chrome, I drive a loan.
None say it, none will ever hear these soft confessions to the “here” I hold right now in its un-good. I slip a “should” on, halfway, dumping it for snacks and cons - I run for miles to lose it on the lawn.
And as I break, I pause to watch a bit to see how not to fail. I land in jail. The wardens never speak to me, the only copy of the key described in stories, but they’ve scattered every page. And every day I fail to reconstruct it out of naught, I age.