A standardized suit.
A universal fit for
all those
who do not feel the nourishment of food.

A career path
cut
through the hem of childhood
and choked by a cheap thin
patterned tie.

The mothering
of a paranoid system;
“it’s not my fault,
just jump through the hoops.

I get paid to read you this book.
Lend me half your ear
and I will half teach you:

Think.
Don’t think.”

Spot the simile.
Dot the t and circle the i.
And I.

I am all in a room painted
with flyers.

They work like road signs,
luminescent with lasered ink
and ladled with pictures
of success.

You can.
You can’t.
You shall.

They hang
like smiling convicts on the wall.
A warning shot to remember
every time you catch yourself
staring into the sky.