a rough bit of it all
torn about the tinged straights-
a bridge to build,
a brick to lay,
another day gone by.

the ornaments inside my house no longer serve amusement-
my clothes mismatched all habberdashed
rest sullen on my skin,
the glow of screens tear at the seams of mildly sane perusement-
and I cannot drink away the ghouls with bucketfuls of gin...

what to do?
o, what to do?
another click or brushstroke-
a painting made for debts unpaid
to some stew of soul and self...

I’ll wrench some “purpose” from the pulpit and stuff it on a shelf.