Blessed' be
The nailguns
That line the walls
Of the hot spot
Home Depots

Ready
Willing
Waiting

To hang up the stocking
Meant solely
For stuffing

Like we all are.

Oh' genesis
Oh' forefathers
Oh' saints
Of yesteryears whose
Sanitorium rituals
We base our lives in
Prove to be baseless

For our emotions
Are not met
By transparent or well-arranged

Grounds.

I, no one, see
The curbside pick up generation
Grasping at straws
For the existential tied to the national.

Get back, they say,
But come on in,
They say to others.

Discovering
Hope in the after-life
Has a 50 % chance of failure.

They opt for the present

Thus taking over
The role

Of Creator.

What could go wrong?

What could happen
When the rug becomes everything
And there is no way

To see the dust?