you know when you stand up
after drooling in your coma
of apathy for hours, for days,
and your legs feel like clay?
so numb they might as well
not even be there.
you move at a slow pace
like the tortoise racing
time’s hare.
you wobble and struggle
for balance, for ledges,
for a sense of sensibility.
but all you get is a sudden
shot of tingles as motor skills
are relearned in a matter of
seconds, years, eons.
so useless you are
in these moments of shame.
God forbid there was a fire,
you would be doomed
like the leaves
in the wind;
melted into your sofa
with the ***** hairs
and potato chip crumbs.
an ashy pile of eyes
studying others’ realities
through a plastic box
of wires,
gratified by your
idolized  idleness;
your patriotic
procrastination,
where all your limbs
are forever
asleep.