We were never meant to stay In one place, neither seat nor heart, For very long, but here we are At rest, letting our roots take hold And creep into the voids and pipes. In spite of the human trope toward Things which keep them alive, Itβs clear, by the way we must smoke To get some fresh air Away from the dust and self-importance In the vents That we have to **** ourselves Just to socialize, That, to go anywhere, enjoy anyone else We have to break the rules. My haunches ache when should my feet From walking, My back aches from stresses of the head Not from lifting, All this bodywork comes from being Immobile, the pain of sitting still, The new smokingβand what am I left with But rootbound habits and new fears Of diseases exchanging dis-ease?