in your Ferrari
as well as all your plans
I’m afraid I’ve led you into this depression

I’m a punch in the gut
I dug a rut non-stop to your heart
so, I can come and go as I want

a hand-bell choir ringing in your ears
the five-alarm fire that dances a waltz
through the fibers of your body hair

you shave them off
but I’m the stubble that grows back thick
the cleft in your chin undecided

as to which way it’s going
so ambivalent that it could split
your face in two without the knowledge
of your knowing

I’m a crater
Some call me the moon
An invader, worse than the bacteria

in your pores
it would take a forklift to get me out
and if you did, I’m a spore that would reproduce
start all over again